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SHE LOOKED UP THE DUSTY ROAD THAT SEEMED ENDLESS. AS 
SHE LOOKED, HER COURAGE BEGAN TO WANE. AFTER ALL 
THE IMPORTANT THING WAS TO GET THERE 

— Frontispiece. 



FERMENTATIONS 
OF ELIZA 


MAUDE M. HANKINS 

•I 


NEW YORK 

THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 




Copyright, 1015 
By MAUDE M. HANKINS 



«V 


• *> > 

♦ A* 


Q^T -2 1915 

© Cl. A 4 1 0 8 0 9 
• / . 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I A Wishing Bone and a Disappointment . . 9 

II Eliza Sings a Song 22 

III Glenraven “Views and Reviews” . ... 34 

IV William’s Predicament and Eliza’s Discovery . 53 

V Eliza Starts on a Journey 63 

VI That Good May Come of It 83 

VII Mrs. Dudley Comes to a Decision .... 94 

VIII New Impressions 103 

IX Harry and Eliza Become Fellow Workers . 117 

X Fermentations 128 

XI The Country Cousins Come a-Visiting . . .144 

XII An Egyptian Princess 156 

XIII William Decides in Favor of Methodism . . 165 

XIV The Meeting of the Club 174 

XV Cammie and Harry in Trouble 186 

XVI The Results of Eliza 193 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

DRAWINGS BY CORNELIUS HANKINS 


She looked up the dusty road that seemed endless. 

As she looked her courage began to wane. After 
all, what did clothes matter. The important 
thing was to get there Frontispiece 

FACING 

PAGE 

“It is this: I think I would like to marry you when 

I get grown.” 38 

“The idea,” cried both girls at once, choking their 
mother in embraces. “She does not — She does 
notr 143 

“Dear God, please listen and be with us every minute 

of to-night — especially to-night, dear God.” . 200 


CHAPTER I 


A WISHING BONE AND A DISAPPOINTMENT 


T HE dinner gong sounded! 

From the cool depths of the thickly 
shaded lawn the guests of Glenraven arose 
and walked toward the house. As they reached the 
broad veranda, the front door, just thrown open by 
Johnson, the colored butler, permitted a cool out- 
rush of air from the tall ceilinged hall within. A 
very distinguished guest was being entertained at 
Glenraven, and in her honor a great many delight- 
ful ladies and gentlemen had been brought together 
by its owner, Mrs. Dudley, whose gracious hos- 
pitality made her the most toasted and popular lady 
for miles around. 

To-day, the huge fluted columns of this old 
colonial house glistened in the September sun and 
the dark green shutters were thrown open in hos- 
pitable welcome. Some belated blossoms had ap- 
peared on the thick honeysuckle vine, while Dick, 
the dignified old canary, remembered a song of his 
youth which he was pouring forth up among their 
white fragrance. 

The distinguishing feature of this Kentucky 


10 


ELIZA 


home lay in the immense space of ground its gal- 
leries, wings and outbuildings covered. When 
first built in the last century, it was an unpreten- 
tious abode, but each successor to the estate seemed 
to get the builder’s craze, until the wonder was its 
proportions were not marred, but the two grand 
wings erected by Mr. Dudley seemed to add dignity 
to the whole. He did not live long, however, to 
enjoy the home he had prepared for the beloved 
bride. She was from a distant city, a pretty child 
of eighteen who had been reared in luxury, yet who 
thought her new home ideal. Their two years of 
married life were as one happy day. He died 
shortly after their second anniversary and she was 
left with twin girls. Reared entirely by her side, 
these children became her comrades — shared her 
joys and anxieties to an unusual degree. Visitors 
had been known to exclaim, “It is an education to be 
near and watch them — the perfect little darlings — 
and to see how they confide in their mother and she 
in them.” Nine years had passed since Richard 
Dudley’s death, and Mrs. Dudley still wore mourn- 
ing for her young husband. 

As soon as Johnson had ushered the last guest 
into the dining-room, three girls in white frocks and 
a boy in blue trowsers came from behind the box 
hedge through which they had been peeping. 


A WISHING BONE 


11 


“That was she,” whispered Eliza, skipping a little 
ahead of the others, her right hand full of four- 
leaf clovers, the other buried in the long black fur 
of the shepherd dog’s head. “That one dressed in 
pink was Mrs. Charlton. I know ’cause she’s so 
pretty.” Eliza trilled a roundelay unconsciously. 

“The one in front?” asked Susan, who always 
wanted to be exact. Susan was the larger of the 
twins, but Eliza was leader. 

“Certainly. The one with Mr. Champe. Oh, 
I know she can write, for she looks like a story- 
lady — Sip ta ra de ah — ” 

“Pshaw!” interrupted the irrepressible William. 
“She ain’t nothin’. I don’t care nothin’ about her. 
I wish we didn’t have to wait. It’s awful on hungry 
kids.” 

“You couldn’t be expected to appreciate her, 
William,” said Eliza a little patronizingly. “I am 
going to be a writer myself, and naturally I want 
to meet this clerity.” 

“Celebrity’s the word you are hitting at, ain’t it?” 
asked William, laughing, but the girls paid no at- 
tention. They had now reached the front porch 
and were peeping through the half-turned shutters 
into the parlor. An exclamation of pleased de- 
light escaped them, for everything looked so beauti- 
ful. A profusion of roses here, there and every- 
where, and they were not expecting to see them, for, 


12 


ELIZA 


the day before, they had been sent to Aunt Mollie’s 
while the transformation took place. “Mother 
must have gotten them at the florist’s,” said Eliza, 
dancing, for flowers were her delight. “Come on, 
let’s go in and pick out our seats. I bid for the 
stool so I can move it where Mrs. Charlton sits and 
watch her while she talks.” 

“I’d just as soon be in a far corner from her,” 
said William. “I’d rather be far away because she 
might ask me to say something.” 

“I wish she would ask me something,” said Eliza. 
“Susan, don’t you and Stella want to talk to her? 
I’d love to read her what I’ve written.” 

“What are your books good for?” asked William 
teasingly. “All that paper wasted.” 

Eliza turned to him, saying sweetly: 

“You know, William, you couldn’t be expected 
to appreciate them though I did bring you in that 
last chapter. You remember, Susan? I left out 
his worst traits — I didn’t want to commemorate 
them, William.” 

“I can’t see what fun you find in writing,” an- 
swered William, reaching over to pull his sister 
Stella’s hair. “It’s all I can do to write four lines’ 
worth in my old copybook.” 

“Everybody can’t be expected to be alike,” said 
Susan. “I don’t like to do the things that Eliza 
likes to do and I can’t ever understand either why 
she likes to do them.” 


A WISHING BONE 


13 


“Eliza, did you put your long end of the wish- 
bone over the door?” asked Stella, anxious to change 
the subject. 

“Oh, yes, I had forgotten about that. I put it 
over the double doors of the dining-room and told 
Johnson to be sure to watch who went under first. 
I hope and pray it was Mr. Champe, for I like him 
better than any man here.” 

They had now entered the front door and stood 
facing the dining-room. The double doors were 
thrown wide open and the long dining table with 
the many guests seated was plain to be seen. John- 
son hovered near the doors, anxious, but happy. 

“Who is that ugly little woman sitting on 
Mother’s right?” asked Susan. “That’s where she 
puts her best guest usually.” 

“It’s Mrs. Charlton’s secretary,” answered Eliza. 
“I saw them come together.” 

“Eliza, you see everything,” said Susan. “And 
you never seem to see anything.” 

“It’s a pity she is ugly,” continued Eliza. “If 
— I mean when I publish my books I’ll want pretty 
people about me. I wish there wasn’t a single ugly 
person in all God’s pretty world. It makes you 
good to be pretty.” 

“Mr. Woodstock isn’t pretty and he’s good,” 
said Susan. 

“Of course,” said Eliza, a little patronizingly. 


14 


ELIZA 


“I never said ugly people were mean , Susan, but 
I said it makes you feel good if you look pretty. 
Besides, Mr. Woodstock is a preacher, and he ought 
to be good by rights.” 

“I’m ugly,” declared William, grinning, “but I 
ain’t mean.” Giving Stella’s hair another pull he 
danced a jig by throwing his legs straight out. 
“Mother says that I’m just mischievous,” he said, 
glancing uneasily where Johnson stood at the end 
of the hall. 

“Now, William,” said Eliza, sweetly, “ you know 
if you should wake up some morning and find your 
freckles all gone and your hair turned to a beauti- 
ful brown instead of re — I mean auburn, and every- 
thing else improved and Aunt Mollie should say, 
‘How handsome our Willie boy grows,’ you know 
well and good it would make you feel so good that 
you would be good all day and maybe the next.” 

“I wouldn’t neither. I don’t give a continental 
how my face looks so’s I have a good time. Girls 
think too much about their looks anyway.” Wil- 
liam turned a handspring as he spoke, caught his 
foot on a chair and over he went, the chair under 
him. J ohnson came hurrying forward, indignantly 
shaking a finger at the children as he came, and 
forming his lips into the word “HUSH” 

“Oh, J ohnson, tell me quick who went under my 
bone?” said Eliza, catching him by the coat. 


A WISHING BONE 


15 


“Whut do yer mean makin’ so much noise here 
fur folks ter wonder at?” demanded Johnson, ad- 
dressing the abashed William, who had retreated, 
backing into the parlor. “How kin I spect things 
ter turn out right whin you chillun keeps up such 
er noise an’ here me er try in’ my bes’.” His face 
was almost tragical and the children began to look 
sober. 

“You never told me, Johnson,” said Eliza, dur- 
ing the painful pause that followed; “I can’t half 
wait. Tell me, please, who went under my bone 
first.” 

Johnson turned toward her, the frown still on his 
face. As her meaning began to dawn on him a 
smile appeared, though none of the children de- 
tected it. Eliza earnestly continued to question 
him. 

“You promised to watch, Johnson. Now don’t 
go tell me you forgot. I’ll be obliged to marry the 
one who did it and it’s not fair for me not to know. 
I hope Mr. Champe was the one. I picked him out. 
Johnson , what makes you look so curious?” 

“Hit wuz Mr. Cornell,” said Johnson, “an’ he’s 
got his wife wid him.” 

Eliza’s face grew very red and her mouth 
trembled. “Oh!” she said with a wail that made 
them all follow her to the sofa where she threw 
herself sobbing. Her sobs increased and no one 


16 


ELIZA 


could control her. She felt that her future was 
ruined. It never occurred to her to doubt that she 
would have to do what had been foretold some day. 
In vain Johnson threatened and implored, but to 
no avail. 

“He can’t marry yer,” he argued; “don’t go ter 
actin’ so silly, Eliza. Hain’t I er tellin’ yer he’s got 
his wife wid him?” 

“It don’t matter if he has,” sobbed Eliza. “She 
will die some day and then I’ll have to do it. It’s 
awful — awful, and he’s got a bald head too. I saw 
it under the shade trees and the sun made it look 
slick. Oh, oh, I feel worse than I ever did in my 
life. I think you might have stopped him from it, 
J ohnson — oh — oh !” 

Johnson, in despair of quieting her, retreated, 
closing the parlor door tight — to muffle the sound 
of her weeping. He walked the length of the hall, 
stopped and listened. Satisfied that she could not 
be heard, he went back to his duties in the dining- 
room, wisely deciding to leave her alone. Some 
time later when the other children went in for their 
dinner Eliza was not with them. 

“Mother,” whispered Susan as she passed her 
mother in the hall, “Eliza is still crying because Mr. 
Cornell went under her wish-bone and we can’t 
make her hush.” 

Eliza, with her head buried in some cushions, be- 


A WISHING BONE 


17 


came conscious that many people stood around her 
and some of them were laughing. Then she heard 
some one say in the sweetest voice: “It’s a shame! 
You all go out and leave her to me. Can’t you see 
it’s a serious occurrence to her?” 

Then, this same person knelt and began talking. 
The words made no impression until Eliza heard 
her say she was Mrs. Charlton. Of course she sat 
up at once and tried to look through her tears. 
Mrs. Charlton — oh, no, it couldn’t be! Why, this 
was the little ugly woman and not the beautiful one. 
There was surely some mistake somewhere. Yet 
she knew she had heard aright. Eliza covered her 
eyes again, for this second disappointment was more 
than she could bear. Mrs. Charlton continued talk- 
ing in that same sweet voice. 

“Wishing bones and what they foretell don’t al- 
ways come true,” she said. “When I was a child I 
put several bones over doors and the man I mar- 
ried never had been under a single one of them.” 

Eliza permitted her to take her hand. Her face 
still was covered with the other hand and she found 
it easy to imagine Mrs. Charlton pretty because of 
her voice. 

“Nobody really believes in them, dearie. It’s 
just a play. Nobody ever thinks anything serious 
will come of it.” 

“Honest?” asked Eliza, faintly. 


18 


ELIZA 


“I am telling you the honest truth ” Mrs. Charl- 
ton replied solemnly. 

Eliza arose and stood for a minute with puckered 
brow. She felt decidedly better than she had ever 
hoped to feel again. Soon her face brightened and 
she extended both hands. 

“I believe you, and am so much obliged to you,” 
she declared. “You’ve said just the right thing. 
I think I’d like to kiss you for what you’ve done.” 

Mrs. Charlton drew her near and kissed her twice. 

“I ’specially wanted to be happy to-night,” con- 
tinued Eliza, “on account of something we had 
planned to do.” 

“Tell me,” said Mrs. Charlton, encouragingly. 

“Well, it’s nice because we haven’t ever done it 
before. We are going to sleep in the office by our- 
selves and not let anybody know about it. We’ve 
been slipping things up there all day — things to 
eat — and to-night we are going to play make-believe 
games until late, then go to sleep in that old four- 
posted bed that used to belong to Grandmother. It 
has a roof over it lined with pleated silk stuff. 
That’s the office up yonder. You see it? That 
little white building with green shutters under that 
biggest,maple tree.” 

Mrs. Charlton leaned forward, eagerly looking 
in the direction indicated by the child’s finger. 
She could only see a tiny speck of white because of 


A WISHING BONE 


19 


so much green. “Yes,” she said encouragingly, 
thinking of the time she had delighted in doing just 
such things as this child did. Then, it suddenly 
dawned upon her that it was a childish prank which 
she must not openly encourage. “Would your 
mother approve? Would she think it safe?” she 
asked. 

“Mother understands everything,” said Eliza, 
grandly. “But then, since you mention it, maybe 
I shall leave a little note on her pillow and ask her 
not to tell anybody else. We want it to be a sur- 
prise. Why, it’s the greatest thing we’ve done ever. 
That’s one reason I am so glad you explained about 
the bone,” — warmly pressing Mrs. Charlton’s hand. 
“I didn’t want anything on my mind to-night. It’s 
ever so much fun to dream things when you are not 
asleep, and playing games with your eyes shut is 
fine.” She paused suddenly, remembering who 
Mrs. Charlton was, and flushed. 

“You will be a writer if you keep on,” said Mrs. 
Charlton. 

“I’ve already written four,” answered Eliza, 
sweetly. “To be a writer is the height of my ambi- 
tion,” she added, in a quaint way. 

“You seem like my own little girl-self come back,” 
said Mrs. Charlton, smiling. “But, listen, dearie, 
and don’t ever forget what I am going to tell you. 
Don’t try to write, dear child. Be happy, joyous, 


20 


ELIZA 


full of youth! Writing means a weary way — and 
a stony way. Oh, little girl, it means heart burn- 
ings, and yearnings, and disappointments, sacrifices 
— sometimes a great sacrifice. Happiness is the 
main thing, and gratified ambition does not always 
produce it.” 

“Aren’t you happy?” asked Eliza, surprised at 
the lady’s earnestness. The flush that sprang to 
Mrs. Charlton’s face made Eliza aware of her rude- 
ness, and she immediately said, “Oh, I’m sorry I 
asked that — please excuse me.” 

“It’s all right. My words made you ask, dear. 
If I have missed the real thing, may you find it, 
dear little girl.” With tears welling in her eyes, 
Mrs. Charlton drew Eliza close and kissed her 
again. 

“I’ll always remember you ” said Eliza, soberly. 
“And — and the things you’ve told me.” 

A short time later, seated happily eating her din- 
ner, Eliza paused in passing a spoonful of ice cream 
to her mouth to say, “Susan, I’ve found out who 
that ugly woman is. She isn’t so ugly either, when 
you’re intimate with her.” 

“Who is she?” asked the three children at once. 

“She’s Mrs. Charlton, the writer. The pretty 
one is her secretary — and^ — and I’ve concluded 
writing isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” 


A WISHING BONE 


21 


“Well, hurry up, Eliza, so’s we can go into the 
parlor.” 

“I’m not going in — at least, not now,” replied 
Eliza, calmly. “I’m going out to the woods-lot 
and make a bonfire.” But she refused to tell them 
what it was she was going to burn. 


CHAPTER II 


ELIZA SINGS A SONG 

6 im W TfOU simply can’t help feeling lonesome 
^ / when the others have gone to sleep and 

JL left you,” whispered Eliza to herself that 
night, shivering a little in spite of the fact that two 
warm bodies were in the same bed with her. It was 
a homely old bed, she thought, when compared with 
her own blue-enameled one up at the house. True, 
she could not see the posts now for the darkness, 
but she could feel where they stood and also where 
the great closet was with its non-shuttable door. 
For the first time she wished they had not kept 
everything so secret. Decidedly it would have been 
better if some one person had been told. If any- 
thing should happen — but, of course, nothing could. 
Lots of Mother’s company had remained for the 
evening and the house would be alive with lights for 
hours yet. 

She smiled as she thought of the way Susan had 
slipped the towels and soap here for morning’s use. 
She had hid the towels under her apron and the soap 
under her sunbonnet, not that anybody would have 

noticed if both articles had been held out in full 
22 


ELIZA SINGS A SONG 


23 


view — with all that company no one had time to 
notice the children — but it was fun for them to 
smuggle things and pretend it was necessary to do 
so. Stella the cousin (Eliza slipped her hand under 
the cover now to make sure that precious girl was 
really there) had brought many things from home, 
laughing at the extraordinary size of the bundle 
which had escaped her mother’s eye. She, Eliza, 
had brought the eatables — three yellow horse ap- 
ples, some biscuits, two thick slices of country ham, 
and one immense cucumber with some vinegar and 
salt. There was also a slice of cocoanut cake saved 
over from Sunday’s dinner for this express occasion. 
They had been a week planning it. There had been 
lots of maneuvering — the hardest part was getting 
Stella; but she was here, the precious! (Again 
Eliza’s hand unconsciously fondled the body on her 
right. ) 

If it had not been for William’s dare they would 
never have thought of passing a night here alone. 
The idea of his accusing them of being afraid of 
haunts. Nobody except darkies and bad boys like 
himself believed in such things. Then he had said, 
“But what about that workman who had been hurt 
and put up there and had had his leg cut off and 
afterward — ” But, here they had laughed him 
to scorn and had determined among themselves that 
they would prove their bravery. Haunts — the 


24 


ELIZA 


very idea! Anyway, the man had been taken away 
before he died. Shivering, Eliza pulled the sheet 
over every vestige of her tousled head. 

It was a great comfort to know Mother was hav- 
ing a lot of company that evening and to feel that 
the house was near, if worst came to worst. Then, 
too, there was the note she had pinned on their own 
pillow, knowing her mother’s habit of looking at 
them the last thing before she slept. Eliza was 
glad Mrs. Charlton had made her think of it. 

What fun it had been playing Red Riding Hood. 
Susan had tripped over that old wrapper and the 
shepherd dog had sprung on her in truly w r olf-like 
fashion. They had not dared to laugh very loud 
for fear of being heard. Stella had then played 
“mamma,” while she and Susan had committed all 
sorts of offenses, keeping their make-believe 
mamma busy trying to handle them. At last they 
had all grown sleepy at the same time and it was 
the most fun undressing and climbing into the tall 
bed with the aid of a chair. Then, they had played 
some more “mamma” games until the other two got 
so sleepy they couldn’t hold their eyes open, while 
she, Eliza, grew wider and wider awake. 

Sh — ! What was that scraping against the 
chimney? 

It must have been the maple branches rubbing 
against the house. Eliza made up her mind to be- 


ELIZA SINGS A SONG 


25 


gin counting the multiplication table backwards — 
a dull enough proceeding to produce sleep in any- 
body. Which was the best way to rest? On your 
left side with one of your arms back so and the other 
under your head. It must be the bolster that kept 
her from feeling comfortable. She had never used 
one before. 

It had been a strange day — quite the strangest 
she had ever spent. She had made a bonfire and 
burnt all her precious manuscripts. She did not 
regret it, although she wondered a little at herself 
for doing it. She couldn’t help crying when she 
saw the name “Robin Moore” just before the paper 
turned into a red sheet. Robin had been her favor- 
ite. She had loved him all the time he was being 
created, weaving dreams about him continually. 
At first he was her little brother, then as he grew 
older she had bestowed on him all the love she would 
have given the father she had never known ; but even 
had it been possible she would not have taken him 
from the ashes. Mrs. Charlton’s words had made 
a deep impression. “I will never write another 
book,” she whispered sadly. “And it is such a pity. 
Of course I will go on dreaming tales, for I can’t 
seem to help that, but I won’t write a book to be 
printed. I wish I never had seen Mrs. Charlton, 
for she has killed my Robin Moore and he seems 
perfecter than ever now he’s dead. For two whole 


26 


ELIZA 


years I have loved him and now I’ve burnt him up 
— oh, I didn’t think I could ever do that.” 

Of her father, Eliza only knew the things her 
mother had told her, imagining the rest, and he be- 
came her ideal of a great, good man. Every night 
she lay awake dreaming of him and had real con- 
versations with him of her own making. “You say 
he was so bright and happy, Mother,” she said one 
day; “then why don’t you put on a white dress with 
blue rosebuds in it and a red rose in your hair. 
Wouldn’t he like that. Mother?” Or another 
time : “That same sparrow is in the mulberry tree, 
the one whose little birds were killed by that big 
wind storm last year, and you would never know 
she was the same bird that mourned, she’s so happy. 
She thinks a year is enough for mourning, Mother.” 
Mrs. Dudley looked at the earnest little face and 
replied, “She has another nest now, dearie, and has 
f orgotten everything. ’ ’ 

“Couldn’t you forget, Mother?” “Hush, Eliza; 
I am better for remembering,” answered her mother 
gently. She was a wise little mother in most things 
and made confiding companions of her two 
daughters. 

There were other times, though, when Eliza 
played, played, all day long. When she was happy 
she was wildly, recklessly, so. She sometimes dared 
too much, but rarely got into trouble by it. Often 


ELIZA SINGS A SONG 


27 


when too late she discovered her own errors and was 
very repentant. Now she began to ask herself if 
it were really safe to spend a whole night up here 
— just three girls. Supposing Stella had not 
locked the door when she said she had. Eliza 
thought she remembered trying it herself, but could 
not feel quite sure. It would be easier to get up 
and see than to lie there wondering. 

Slowly she began working herself out from be- 
tween the others. The bed was so tall she was com- 
pelled to lie on her stomach and slide down. Some- 
thing cold on the floor made her draw back quickly. 
She found an apple seed sticking to the bottom of 
her foot. She brushed it off and slid to the floor. 

The door was really locked after all. She 
walked to the window and looked out. Lights 
gleamed from every window of the big house. 
How silly to feel afraid with everybody up there so 
close. A grateful breeze sprang through the half- 
turned shutter slats and blew through her flowing 
curls. The hot September day had been followed 
by a cool night ; the maple trees bowed and rustled 
like a much beflounced maiden, casting fitful shad- 
ows over the grass now heavy laden with dew. All 
of this, with the constant chirping of Katy-dids 
from the tree-tops, soothed Eliza as she knelt there 
and looked out. Nothing could 'possibly happen 
to harm any one. What was it she had heard Mr. 


28 


ELIZA 


Champe call it? His “Joy Day.” It was a pretty 
expression, and she believed she liked Mr. Champe 
better than any man she had ever known. In her 
next book she certainly would — but then she re- 
membered there was to be no next book. 

Soberly she went back to bed, deciding to com- 
pose herself and sleep. Placing one arm around 
comfortable Susan and the other under her head, 
she closed her eyes. 

To her surprise she found she was not going to 
sleep. Her eyes would not stay shut, and no mat- 
ter on which side she turned there was always the 
convincing feeling that the other one would have 
been better. After becoming a perfect corkscrew, 
she decided to go to the window once more and see 
if the house was still lighted. Just as she began 
crawling out of bed, the peculiar scratching com- 
menced again. It seemed to be under the very 
window where she had lately knelt. 

“Stella!” 

No answer. Stella and Susan were no good. 
How could she stand it ! A distinct thumping now 
began on the far end of the office. She could feel 
every hair on her head standing up like a bristle 
brush. If ever she was to make her escape, now 
was the time. She wouldn’t stop to wake the others 
but would send back for them. Quick as a flash 
she was out of the bed and, wrenching open the 


ELIZA SINGS A SONG 


29 


door, was bounding over the grass as fleetly as a 
fawn. Not a child anywhere could catch Eliza if 
she was given a slight start. Feeling the thing still 
chasing her she rushed right into the parlor full of 
guests. 

“Send for the others, Mother — now!” she cried. 

“Why, Eliza Dudley!” 

Her mother’s shocked tones produced self-con- 
sciousness. Her night-gown and bare feet before 
everybody! Her fright became minimized and she 
felt very foolish. The faces and furniture began 
to swim as she stammered out something that 
sounded like a lame excuse : 

“I was scared, Mother, up in the old office. We 
were sleeping there for fun and something began 
scratching on the weather boarding and” — Her 
voice refused to emit another sound. She was 
thoroughly abashed at the outrageous position into 
which she had jumped. The man known as Mr. 
Champe found a scarf and threw it around her, 
drawing her to his lap as he did so. She was soon 
put at ease by his companionship. 

“Come and help me eat my ice cream,” he said. 
“I was just wishing for some one, because it was 
such a big plateful.” 

“Another plate of cream, Johnson,” called 
Mother. A heaping pink mass was brought and 
placed before her on a table, Mr. Champe put her 


30 


ELIZA 


in an armchair and she sank back, drawing a deep 
breath. The roses that had held her spellbound 
that afternoon were everywhere. Heaps of them 
stood right by her side in the largest jardiniere and 
the lamp light turned them a warm yellowish pink. 
Across the room there were more and to her left 
more. Everybody was smiling at her. She did 
not know what a perfect little picture princess she 
made with her sparkling eyes and red cheeks. 

“I wish I had on my shoes,” she whispered to 
Mr. Champe. “Mother doesn’t let us appear be- 
fore company bare-footed after we are nine.” 

Mr. Champe assumed the teasing role: “Here 
now,” he said, holding the ice cream just beyond her 
reach. “What are you going to give me for this? 
You must pay, you know. What can you do, 
dance, sing, say a speech, or what?” 

“I can’t do anything except sing,” said Eliza, 
humbly, feeling her insignificance in that company 
of grown-ups. “I can’t sing without the piano any- 
way.” 

“Why, that’s the girl! Of course you’ll sing for 
us. What do you say?” 

“I’ll try if Mother will play,” said Eliza. 

“Then Mother will, I know. Mrs. Dudley,” he 
called, “play for Eliza to sing.” 

Mrs. Dudley smiled, saying, “Stand up then, 
Eliza, and let your voice out. There, stand facing 
them all — that’s it.” 


ELIZA SINGS A SONG 


31 


“You may hold my hand if it will help any,” 
whispered Mr. Champe, but Eliza refused. 

The song her mother chose was a simple little 
love ballad that she had known all her life, but un- 
fortunately it recalled her lost Robin to mind, which 
made her voice tremble so much she could scarcely 
control it. When she began the second verse she 
found it almost impossible to continue. From un- 
der the scarf her little hand sought the kind clasp 
of Mr. Champe’s. A new strength seemed to come 
when he pressed it in his. She threw her head back 
and started afresh. Her tones rang exquisitely 
true, and her audience listened spellbound. 

“I met you at the wicket gate. 

You al-ways let me through. 

It’s ve — ry har-d to open 
But you never come and try. 

Won’t you tell me why, Robin, 

Won’t you tell me why?” 

There were a few tears in her eyes and possibly 
a little trembling in her voice, but it only added to 
the charm. 

“Won’t you tell me why, Robin? 

Wo — n’t you tell me why?” 

When she sat down, there was long and continued 
applause. “It beats the Jews how she has caught 
the spirit of the thing,” said a man over by the door, 
wiping his glasses. 


32 


ELIZA 


“Mrs. Dudley, her voice is wonderful,” said sev- 
eral at once. 

“It did sound rather well,” answered her mother. 

The only person present who did not praise ex- 
travagantly was Mr. Champe. Eliza looked at 
him expectantly, but he only drew her to the table 
and told her bluntly to go ahead and eat her ice 
cream before it melted. “Don’t spill it down your 
neck,” he admonished; “it will feel very uncom- 
fortable if you do.” 

“It didn’t go down my neck,” laughed Eliza; “it 
went on my foot and feels like a cold blister.” 

After everybody began to talk of something else 
and she had quieted down, he said, “Your sing- 
ing was very nice, dearie. How comes I never 
heard you before?” 

“You never asked me before,” returned Eliza, 
simply. “I am so much obliged to you for holding 
my hand. I couldn’t have sung that last verse 
without.” 

“What a funny child you are,” he said, smiling. 

When Eliza went to bed she found Stella and 
Susan already there, but was too sleepy to ask 
questions. The next morning she heard how her 
mother had sent for them as soon as she had come to 
the house. She also learned that it was William 
who had thumped on the office, trying to frighten 
them. He never got much satisfaction out of his 


ELIZA SINGS A SONG 


33 


joke for everybody blamed and scolded him. Even 
Mrs. Dudley told him how seriously practical jokes 
sometimes resulted, and made him promise never 
to do so again. Eliza discovered also that his 
mother had punished him for being out so late, and 
she began to pity him so much that she forgave 
him. 


CHAPTER III 


GLEN RAVEN “VIEWS AND REVIEWS” 

I T had been a long winter. Lovely Glenraven 
without its garniture of leaves, flowers, and 
song birds appeared silent and lonely. There 
were many heavy snows and Johnson had to shovel 
paths to the front gate and around the house, the 
drifts often being taller than his head. Then came 
the sun, the sparkling icicles, the frosted cedars, the 
rivulets of melted snow and rain running down the 
wide graveled walk to the front gate where the 
twisted roots of the big maples — summer play- 
houses — now looked like silent useless arms. 

The old white office had been turned into a school- 
room where Miss Sallie the governess entered les- 
sons with double vim. The cousins, Stella and 
William, were asked to become pupils, which invita- 
tion Aunt Mollie gladly accepted, because of the 
poor school facilities of the neighborhood. 

But, if Glenraven looked lonely from without, in- 
side there was always a wealth of warmth and wel- 
come. Seldom without guests, Mrs. Dudley, im- 
bued with cordial hospitality, made everybody feel 
so perfectly at home, so free to come and go at will, 
34 


GLENRAVEN “VIEWS AND REVIEWS” 35 


that, being thus well fed and housed, oftentimes 
some had been known to remain almost indefinitely. 
Mat, the one time nurse, but now cook, whose long 
service in the family gave her certain privileges, 
thus expressed her views to Johnson relative to a 
certain guest who at this time was overstaying: 

“Miss Clarise is jes’ too good. She is too good 
fur her own good. I jes’ wishes some comp’ny 
would come an’ go an’ not come an’ stay like dey 
does.” 

Johnson nodded to evince his agreement. Then, 
stooping to pick up a crumb of butter off the floor 
that Mat had accidentally dropped, he said com- 
plaisently: “But thin, Mat, you an’ me does all 
der work fur der comp’ny. Miss Clarise she don’t 
have no bother ’bout dat part.” 

“Whut?” sniffed Mat, who systematically 
snubbed Johnson. “Whut’d you sey, nigger?” 
She went into the pantry, got two eggs for her 
bread and came back. “Sho we does der hardes’ 
drudgery — sho’ we does. Who’s gwine let her little 
han’s do dat? But I sees der inside uv things an’ 
Miss Clarise is er angel not ter see. Folks could 
walk right square dab over her!” 

“Miss Clarise ain’t pore ” declared Johnson, 
knowing how every need had been abundantly sup- 
plied during his stay of six years. 

“Pore? Course not! Who mentioned pore- 


36 


ELIZA 


ness? Dat ain’t hit. Hit’s waiten on folks dat 
don’t ’preciate hit no more dan der time hit takes 
ter turn ’roun’. Den ergin, no folk’s bank accounts 
is like Indian rubber, ’specially whin deir men folks 
is dead.” 

“Miss Clarise is too good. I allers said so,” as- 
sented Johnson. “Hit’s allers been jes’ dis erway.” 

“She’s got' me ter allers stick by her,” declared 
Mat, squaring her shoulders and beating more 
vigorously on her bread. “I’d go wid her ter Hali- 
fax, I would. I’ze true ter Miss Clarise, I is.” 

“I’ll stick as long as you do,” declared Johnson 
with a wink that Mat disdained to notice. Mat 
had been a widow four years and did not believe in 
second marriages. The smile with which she ac- 
companied her next remark was caused by memories 
in which he had no part. It was very good to see 
Mat smile. Her face looked like a sunbeam break- 
ing through a cloud. 

“I tell yer, nigger, I’ll never furgit der day I fust 
come. Hit wuz right after Marse Richard died an’ 
dem two pretty little dears wuz ’bout er month old. 
Miss Clarise she put ’em in dese arms uv mine an’ 
thin she looked at me an’ she sez, wid her two pretty 
big eyes, she sez, ‘You’ll take care uv ’em, won’t you. 
Mat?’ I’ll never furgit her ’spression, not ef I 
lives ter be er hundud. I knowed I’d foun’ my 
mistis an’ I ain’t never changed my min’ frum dat 


GLENRAVEN “VIEWS AND REVIEWS” 37 


day ter dis. I ’predate her, I does. Look how 
good an’ kind she allers is. Look how good she 
wuz ter take Marse Richard’s sister’s chillun an’ 
put ’em in school wid hern ’thout no charges — not 
thet I’m er saying thet Miss Mollie don’t ’preciate 
hit.” 

“I never seen er wusser boy dan dat ar William,” 
said J ohnson, remembering past offenses. 

“He worries me some,” agreed Mat. “Him 
allers er cornin’ roun’ er nosin’ ter see whut I’ze 
gwine have fur dinner. I can’t hide nothin’ ’tall 
frum him. But thin, boys is all jes’ der same. I’ll 
take girls fur mine ever’time.” 

“Boys is mean frum der day dey’s born,” de- 
clared Johnson, forgetting his own sex. 

“Dey sho’ is,” said Mat, breaking into one of her 
contagious laughs that echoed throughout the big 
kitchen and the entry beyond. 

In the late fall, Mrs. Dudley had lost an only 
sister, which threw her back into deep mourning, 
and her sweet face still bore traces of her sad be- 
reavement. Soon after it happened, Mr. Champe 
had called. Eliza, going into the darkened parlor, 
had found him waiting for her mother to appear. 
She slipped her hand into his, before he had ex- 
actly comprehended who she was. It was the first 
time they had seen each other since the house party 
tendered Mrs. Charlton. 


38 


ELIZA 


“Why, hallo !” he exclaimed; “whom have we 
here? If it isn’t the little dream-girl who got 
frightened at bugaboos.” 

“I’m awful glad to see you,” she told him. 
“Why on earth hav’n’t you been before?” 

He threw back his head and laughed. 

“Not being blessed with double vision, my dear, 
how was I to know I was wanted?” 

“You remember you called it your joy day?” she 
continued earnestly. “It was such a pretty way to 
call it. But what I’ve wanted ’specially to tell you 
was what I’ve known ever since that night. I am 
going to tell you now.” 

“Strike ahead,” said Mr. Champe, pulling her 
down on the sofa by his side and turning his head 
in a listening attitude. 

“It is this: I think I would like to marry you 
when I get grown,” said Eliza, smiling sweetly. 

“You would?” he said, flushing with pleasure at 
the honest admiration for himself shown in her up- 
turned face. 

“Well,” he continued after a pause, during which 
Eliza had her misgivings. “That’s a serious prop- 
osition, my dear. You see, I don’t know how you 
are going to turn out, and here I am, already 
finished. Don’t you think you have me at a dis- 
advantage?” 

“I am going to try " said poor Eliza. 



"IT IS THIS: I THINK I WOULD LIKE TO MARRY YOU WHEN I 
GET GROWN," SAID ELIZA, SMILING SWEETLY. 




GLENRAVEN “VIEWS AND REVIEWS” 39 


“That’s the question,” returned Mr. Champe. 
“I should want you to be very smart, and you know 
that takes application. You hav’n’t told me yet 
whether you are doing well in school?” 

“Not so overly,” answered Eliza, faintly. 

“Then you must begin to make more effort. I 
couldn’t possibly have a lazy wife.” 

Eliza thought he was in dead earnest. “I hear 
Susan calling me,” she said, rising. “Good-by, 
Mr. Champe. We are going to run a race down to 
the old bridge.” 

“I hope you will win,” called Mr. Champe. 

“I almost always do,” she paused at the door to 
assure him. “Susan gives up too quick. It doesn’t 
ever pay to give up.” She flung him a kiss and dis- 
appeared. 

When their mother entered a few minutes later, 
he turned from the window where he had stood 
watching the race. 

“Do you know,” he said to her, holding out his 
hand, “I was just thinking as you came in what 
glorious children yours are. Why they are worth 
b — are worth a million dollars apiece.” 

Eliza had really meant to reform, but studying 
was not her strong point. She was very apt to 
linger over the lessons she loved and give the others 
a mere sweeping glance. Like many bright chil- 


40 


ELIZA 


dren, she trusted to that very brightness to bridge 
her over difficulties and her marks were usually 
good. Mrs. Dudley trusted her, for she knew 
Eliza was conscientious. Susan the twin, who was 
a matter-of-fact little soul, often remonstrated: 
“Come, Eliza — you know the ’rithmetic is awful 
hard for to-morrow.” 

“You and Stella for arithmetic,” Eliza would 
answer carelessly, “I for history and map drawing. 
I adore to draw maps, Susan.” And then — but 
Miss Sallie was very forgiving and very helpful, 
so, on the whole, things went smoothly. v 

Stella the cousin was a wholesome, sweet girl with 
quiet brown eyes and drab-colored hair, perfectly 
straight, combed back from her forehead because 
of a cowlick, about which she was rather sensitive 
She often provoked her mother by wishing aloud 
that she was “Aunt Clarise’s child.” She meant 
nothing disloyal by the wish, which merely existed 
because of her devotion to both her cousins and her 
desire never to be separated from them a moment. 

William was a mischievous, well-grown boy, 
mostly legs, whose twelve years had not been de- 
voted to study. But, while his backwardness in 
books made the girls rather look down on him, they 
were forced to respect his ability for always getting 
even with them in the matter of jokes, and more 
than even . He didn’t care a rap for their opinions, 


GLENRAVEN “VIEWS AND REVIEWS” 41 


however. When his mother had first proposed his 
studying under Miss Sallie with the girls, he had 
flatly put his foot down on it; but finally, after 
weighing matters, he decided that Miss Sallie would 
be a very easy person to be got around. If his ex- 
pectations were not realized about Miss Sallie, no 
one was any the wiser, for William always made 
the best of a bad bargain. 

At this special time, reviews and examinations 
were on, and the breath of spring in the air made 
Miss Sallie and lessons rather trying. One day 
they all felt dreadfully bored. William fidgeted, 
Eliza yawned, and Stella and Susan cast sorrowful 
glances in their direction, secretly not blaming them 
so very much. Perhaps it was the warm spring 
day that made Miss Sallie seem different; anyhow, 
when she gave three raps on her desk to attract 
Eliza’s attention and then the answer fell wide of 
the mark, she arose in a very un-Miss- Sallie-like 
manner and demanded that Eliza arise also. 

“Where was your mind when I asked that ques- 
tion, Eliza? You are not a bit interested to-day — 
Where was your mind?” 

“I was just imagining,” said Eliza, sweetly, ris- 
ing and accompanying her rising with a smile. 

“Stand here,” commanded the new Miss Sallie, 
“and tell the whole class what it was you were im- 
agining.” 


42 


ELIZA 


If the whole class had been a room full, instead of 
three, Eliza would still have secretly gloried in her 
task. She walked toward the rostrum swinging 
her arms and feeling entirely self -poised. Wil- 
liam’s expression as she passed his desk evinced 
plainly that he thought it great fun making her 
do this thing, and she exulted within herself 
more because she knew how much pleasure she was 
deriving from it. 

“Here?” she asked of Miss Sallie, measuring two 
steps back from the rostrum’s edge. 

“Yes. Begin.” 

“It won’t be what you expect,” said Eliza. 
“I’m awful glad William is interested in some- 
thing,” she added, seeing William grin openly. 

“Begin,” commanded Miss Sallie, feeling sud- 
denly that she must commence observing stricter 
discipline. 

“Well, I was in a lion’s den.” 

“Gee whiz!” ejaculated William. 

“It was a good lion,” continued Eliza sweetly. 
“And I was the lion’s little girl. He could talk to 
me, which he did all the time, and our home was 
green and whispering winds and sweetie smells of 
violets and earth and things — everywhere was 
woods and I never saw the inside of a house for 
— for a whole year.” 

The faces of the three listening children became 


GLENRAVEN “VIEWS AND REVIEWS” 43 


wistful. Miss Sallie looked at them compassion- 
ately as Eliza took her seat ; then, that part of Miss 
Sallie which had endeared her to children all her 
life came uppermost. Closing her book she arose. 

“It seems to me,” she said, smiling, “that I 
noticed some violets blooming somewhere the other 
day. Suppose we lay books aside and see if we can 
find them.” 

With a shout of joy, the schoolroom was vacated 
in a twinkling. 

The woods-lot — one had to cross the big road to 
reach it — stretched along opposite the house until 
it ended near the pebbly banks of a creek. The 
sprinkling of tender green overhead and peeping 
sprouts underfoot made it very lovely just now. 
The sun, the smell of spring, the awakening song of 
birds caused the children to dance in their appre- 
ciation. Once, a red bird swooped down in front of 
them, then sprang on a hack-berry limb and com- 
menced trilling happy notes. A blue jay further 
off dropped to the ground, secured a stick, and was 
gone in a twinkling. 

“Nests!” exclaimed Stella. 

“Building,” said Susan. 

“Spring is come; I know it, I know it,” sang 
Eliza, catching the hands of the others in sympathy. 

“I just wish something would happen,” she cried. 
“I wish we could discover something alive that we 
never saw before — just anything wild.” 


44 


ELIZA 


“You’d run, Eliza,” said William. Eliza looked 
at him condescendingly. 

“That shows all you know, William,” she replied 
sweetly, “for I’d do no such thing.” 

Across the road William spied a friend and a 
sudden idea occurred which he hastened to put into 
execution. 

“You-all run on,” he said to the others. “I see 
Rufus Dodd over yonder and I’ve a word to say to 
him.” 

“Well, hurry,” said Miss Sallie. “You know 
these are still school hours. We will wait for you 
here.” 

While he was gone the girls found many things to 
do, such as swinging on grape vines and small sap- 
lings bent down for the purpose. The soft breath 
of spring fanned their faces. Miss Sallie, too, 
caught the spirit and entered into everything with 
real enjoyment. 

In the meantime, William had caught up with his 
friend, who carried the skin of a fox in one hand and 
a gun in the other. For some time they stood talk- 
ing in low tones. Finally William said, “Now, 
you run on ahead and slip it behind that old log 
at the foot of the largest mound — then hide and 
wait. I bet we give Eliza the scare of her life.” 

“You were not gone very long,” said Miss Sallie 
as he sauntered up. She was busy trying to dis- 


GLENRAVEN “VIEWS AND REVIEWS’’ 45 


entangle her foot from a sapling and failed to note 
his rather sheepish expression. 

“Let me undo you, Miss Sallie,” he said, gallantly 
holding the tree down until she could spring off 
gracefully. 

“Come on, let’s hurry. The violets are down by 
the creek where the steepest part juts out,” cried 
Eliza, skipping ahead of the others. 

It was the nicest creek in the world. It sprang 
from the most beautiful spring and ran all the time. 
Never was it too deep to wade and always the water 
was clear enough to see one’s feet every minute. 
There were many colored pebbles and snail shells 
— My! Sometimes even a slippery snail was found 
crawling out. 

“O little creek, of a big creek, of a river, of a 
ocean — where do you end and where begin?” sang 
Eliza. “You are mine though and you will never 
leave me, will you, O creek?” 

Two grape vines grew on the bank and looped on 
purpose for swings. It was very exciting going 
over the water, then back again, bumping against 
the mossy wall of a bank. The violets were there, 
too, hid by moss and leaves — little wild ones own- 
ing no perfume but unequaled for freshness and 
beauty. 

Across the creek was a big mound covered with 
living curiosities: ferns, hazlenut bushes, papaw- 


46 


ELIZA 


trees and sweet gum trees also — and the most 
beautiful moss, some with little short ferns grow- 
ing out of it. This was the children’s happy hunt- 
ing ground. They never ventured so far alone, 
but there were frequent days spent with Miss Sallie 
and Mat, or sometimes even Johnson, could be 
coaxed into becoming a child again. Mother was 
the only one who would never go. Perhaps it was 
because of memories clinging to the beautiful spot. 
She plainly had been once, for whenever the chil- 
dren returned eager to tell everything, she always 
listened and would sometimes question as to details, 
showing plainly her familiarity with the place. 

Half-way up the mound there were some logs 
high and dry which made capital seats. It was to 
these that William innocently tolled the party. 

Eliza, seated, rested her chin in both hands and 
said thoughtfully, “I think the world is the sweet- 
est place. I love everybody in it to-day, Miss Sal- 
lie. I couldn’t get mad even with an enemy.” 

“That’s religion, dear,” answered Miss Sallie. 
“I often think the best sermons are preached to us 
by nature on days like this if we will stop to listen.” 

“What kind of sermons?” asked William, sus- 
piciously. 

“A sermon about all this,” said Miss Sallie, wav- 
ing her hand significantly. “Dear child, William, 
in church is not the only place we hear preach- 


GLENRAVEN “VIEWS AND REVIEWS” 47 


in g; only you must be awake to listen and must 
look to see. Eyes to see and ears to hear. Every 
little flower, every snail shell — every rippling wave 
contains a sermon, dear.” 

“I never knew what shouting meant before,” said 
Eliza, “but I believe I do now.” The solemnity 
of her voice struck Stella and Susan speechless. 
William alone was undaunted. 

“I never could bear sermons,” he said. “I’d 
never go to church if Mother didn’t make me.” 

Eliza looked his way with thoughtful eyes. 

“There’s lots of truth in what he says, Miss 
Sallie,” she declared. “You know,” she continued 
apologetically, “we don’t go so very often because 
it is so far — and we have Bible reading at home 
every morning and on Sunday a long one with a 
lot of explaining. Mother never misses that. I 
try to love to go to church, but I don’t really. Mr. 
Woodstock reads all his sermons and not a bit of 
expression to his voice. I think it’s a crime to be 
a poor minister. Jesus Himself was right partic- 
ular about choosing the ones to preach — it’s a par- 
ticular job because so much depends on it.” 

“I despise to go to listen to Mr. Woodstock,” 
declared William, but Eliza continued as though 
he had not spoken. 

“I’ll never forget what Mother read to us once 
about a man named Legion because he had so many 


48 


ELIZA 


devils in him and when Jesus had cast them out 
the man wanted to go follow along after Jesus, 
but Jesus told him no, to go on home and testify 
there. He knew who were best fitted to preach 
His Word — at least that is what I understood 
about it — isn’t that what you thought, Miss Sallie?” 

“I don’t know,” answered Miss Sallie, finding 
it hard to answer Eliza on the spur of the moment. 
“I suppose though that a great many do attempt 
to be ministers who are not really called.” 

“That’s just it exactly,” declared Eliza. “It’s 
a crime, I say, Miss Sallie — why it’s worse than 
being a poor surgeon. You remember that poor 
man they killed by cutting off his leg up yonder 
at the office? Well, legs are no account compared 
to people’s souls — the importance of them, I mean 
— are they, Miss Sallie?” 

“Eliza, stop being so sanctimonious,” whispered 
William with a wicked smile, edging closer and 
touching her skirt. “Look, see what’s on you.” 

From the depths of Eliza’s earnestness she awoke 
and looked in the direction William’s eyes indicated. 
Horrors! An animal was creeping there — a huge 
rat or a fox. 

“Murder!” she screamed, jumping up and up- 
setting the others, who fell backwards over the log. 

“Murder!” she screamed again, running pell-mell 
down the mound, the others following. 


GLENRAVEN “VIEWS AND REVIEWS” 49 


William and another boy, who had come out from 
behind a tree, laughed to split their sides. 

“Look!” cried William, waving a fox skin at 
their receding backs. “Just see what you-all were 
scared of — only a skin.” 

“I thought you said you wanted to discover 
something, Eliza,” he shouted. “I said you’d be 
scared, and oh, goodness! weren’t you, though!” 

They came to a halt and turned. * At first Eliza 
could not comprehend that it was a joke, but, when 
she did, her face became crimson. 

“You mean boy! You meanest boy — you mean 
boy!” she cried, stamping her foot. Just then her 
foot slipped and she almost went backwards into 
the creek. With an effort she caught herself just 
in time, but this sobered her and kept her from 
saying anything more to William. It was a very 
silent group that hurried home. William felt that 
he had not been treated fairly because a joke is a 
joke. Susan and Stella had only sympathy for 
Eliza, while Miss Sallie felt sorry for everybody 
and wanted to be peacemaker, but words seemed 
trespassers. 

It was not until the lamps were lighted that she 
managed to speak a few words with Eliza alone. 
Eliza was still nursing her injuries, but she con- 
sented to listen, which was something. 

“You forget what you said about loving every- 


50 


ELIZA 


body and that nothing could make you angry, even 
with an enemy. You did not stand the test, dear,” 
said Miss Sallie. 

“I know it. I’m glad of it! That mean boy 
William — who would have thought of his doing 
anything so mean!” 

“He only meant to tease,” said Miss Sallie, pull- 
ing Eliza closer to her. “I will speak to him 
though, for practical jokes result seriously some- 
times.” 

“I wish you would,” said Eliza. “I wish you’d 
— do — I don’t know what,” she ended lamely. 

“You won’t feel this way to-morrow,” said Miss 
Sallie. “I hate it on your account, Eliza, for I 
was very much impressed with what you said and 
your getting so angry sort of — er, ruined it all.” 

“I know it!” cried the child. “Don’t rub it in 
any worse, Miss Sallie. I never could see why it 
is that we never do what we think we will when the 
time comes. I was feeling religious-er than I ever 
had felt in my life and to think William had power 
to ruin every bit of it in a minute. I’m exactly 
like Peter, Miss Sallie. When Mother read to us 
about Peter I seemed to love him the best of all 
the apostles ’cause — ’cause he was like me ex-act-ly. 
He failed so many times in acting just as he ex- 
pected to act — and yet — he meant so well and — he 
loved so much.” 


GLENRAVEN “VIEWS AND REVIEWS" 51 


“No one is perfect/’ said Miss Sallie. She knew 
Mrs. Dudley spent much time reading to the girls, 
yet had not before realized how deep the impression 
made. “I know you and Susan must be a great 
comfort to your mother,” she continued, noticing 
Eliza’s silence. 

“Yes, I think we are — and she’s a comfort to us. 
You see, we’re all each other have had for ten — 
nearly eleven years. Mother is not like any other 
mother. She tells us things. I know all about 
how Mr. Hobbs is managing the farm — it isn’t so 
well either. And about those notes Mother is hav- 
ing trouble with — the cotton land renters, you 
know. This seems to be a bad year for Mother.” 

“She’s too good — that’s why,” said Miss Sallie. 

“I don’t know,” answered Eliza, smiling sweetly. 
“Nobody can be too good these days — can they?” 

“No — I suppose not, you dear child,” answered 
Miss Sallie, rising. “Oh, by the way, Eliza, treat 
William kindly to-morrow. Heap coals on his 
head, dear. It is the best way.” 

“I had already decided to do it,” Eliza answered 
sweetly, her good humor fully restored. “I like 
to do hard things.” 

When William, with a rather shamed-faced ex- 
pression, entered the schoolroom next morning, he 
was surprised to find the girls meeting him with 
the kindest glances. Once, during the forenoon 


52 


ELIZA 


when he broke his pencil point, Eliza proffered him 
hers as though it was the most natural thing in the 
world to do. Stella and Susan also showed him 
unusual kindnesses, and by evening he was not only 
sorely puzzled but really uncomfortable. Finally, 
he could stand it no longer and decided to take the 
bull by its horns. 

“Say, Eliza,” he whispered, “what’s it you-all 
are trying to give me ? Heaping coals — is that the 
idea?” 

“What are you talking about, William?” she 
asked sweetly. 

“Shut up,” he answered impatiently. “I’m up 
to your-all’s racket. You can’t pull any wool over 
my eyes. Let’s play quits. I call it sneaky to act 
as you-all are doing.” He seemed so miserable for 
William that Eliza pitied him a little. 

“All right, William,” she said, extending her 
hand. “It is all patched up and the seams are not 
even rough. Let’s play ‘Base’ when school is out.” 
There was something very winning about Eliza. 

“You are game all right,” declared William with 
honest admiration in his face. “Eliza, I’ll bring 
you a big bunch of jonquils — the first that bloom 
— you see if I don’t!” 


CHAPTER IV 

william’s predicament and Eliza’s discovery 


I N’ April. Eliza wrote a letter: 

“Dear Mr. Champe: 

“This is Eliza. How are you? There isn’t 
any news on the farm. Why on earth don’t you 
come? Miss Sallie says I’m applying better than 
I did. Applying gets harder as summer gets 
nearer and everything calls us out doors. Be sure 
to answer my letter. I like pen and ink answers 
better than heart answers like you said you an- 
swered last time. I heard Johnson telling Mat 
that our cropper didn’t understand the farm. 
Susan has lost a side tooth. Mine’s not shedding 
yet, although we’re twins. T need you every hour.’ 
That is a hymn so I put kotation marks. Susan 
sends love. Mother w r ould but she’s abcent. 
Good-by, 

“Yours in the near futur, 

“Eliza Dudly, age eleven and one day.” 

Without delay, Mr. Champe answered in this 
wise : 


53 


54 


ELIZA 


“Dear Eliza: 

“Your letter makes me quite hopeful. I believe 
my little Eliza will make a woman of whom any- 
body would be proud. I shall be coming out some 
fine day soon. Every farm needs a man at its 
head (tell Mother). Study hard, little girl; say 
your prayers, and make a noble woman. I need 
you, also ; so don’t forget to keep me posted. Many 
heart answers go with this that pen and ink can’t 
write. 

“Always your good friend, 

H. C. Champe. 

“P. S. Your birthday present follows this by 
express. There’s one for Susan too. H. C.” 

But summer had come before Eliza thought 
about answering that letter. Then, an accidental 
discovery made her write. 

“Come on, kids,” shouted William one day, 
“come on — Aunt Lucy is picking geese.” He ran 
on ahead up to the big barn, not paying the least 
attention whether they followed or not. 

They found Aunt Lucy seated on the usual old 
cane-bottomed chair, the picking already begun. 
An old gray goose was in her lap and on her right 
stood a barrel ready for the feathers. William 
hovered near, his hands rammed deep in his pockets. 

“Don’t you want me to catch one for you?” he 


ELIZA’S DISCOVERY 


55 


asked; but Aunt Lucy, who had no use for boys 
— especially for William, who teased her unmerci- 
fully — said sharply, “No, I don’t! Min’ yer own 
buz’ness, boy! En don’t go tryin’ enny mo’ 
monkey shines roun’ here er I’ll perlitely sen’ yer 
ter der house — I sho’ will.” 

“What has he been doing, Aunt Lucy?” asked 
Stella, who had just entered. 

“Whut ain’t he done, yer’d better ast,” sniffed 
Aunt Lucy, “an’ he ain’t been here ceptin’ jes’ one 
little minute so fur.” 

William grinned and began to move toward the 
corner where the geese stood huddled together like 
frightened sheep. Stella, watching him, suspected 
he was up to something, so she said, “You’d better 
mind Aunt Lucy, William, or I’ll tell Mother on 
you when we go home.” 

Aunt Lucy suddenly broke out into one of her 
working songs; her voice pitched high. 

“Go tell Aunt Susan, 7 

Go tell Aunt Susan, 

Go — tell Aunt Su — san 
Der ol’ gray goose is dead.” 

“Honey” (to Eliza), “move a little so’s I kin 
put der feathers in ’thout stoopin’.” 

“Der one she’s been savin’, 7 

Der one she’s been sav-in’, 


56 


ELIZA 


Der one she’s been sav — in’ 

Ter make er feather bed.” 

“Der ol’ gander’s mourning 
Mourn — in’, mourn — in’, 

Der ol’ gander’s mournin’ 

Becase his mate is dead.” 

During the singing William had gradually 
moved closer to the huddled geese and as Aunt 
Lucy sang the last word he screamed, “Dead noth- 
ing!” and grabbed for the nearest one. Immedi- 
ately, like a flock of wild geese they spread their 
wings and flew straight across the barn. William 
was so frightened that he fell sprawling, while 
everybody laughed. Aunt Lucy herself laughed 
so much she overturned her chair and went head 
over heels. This made her furious. 

“Didn’t I tell yer so!” she said to William as 
soon as she arose. “Didn’t I tell yer how ’twould 
be, yer meddlesome boy.” She shook her fore 
finger at him menacingly. “I’m glad yer fell! 
Now I jes’ recken yer’ll min me whin I keep er 
tellin’ yer ter behave. Here er scarin’ all dem 
geese up an’ me er tellin’ yer all der time ter quit.” 

“I put some life into the things anyway,” said 
William, rubbing the dirt off his knee trousers. 
(The barn had a dirt floor.) 

Soon Aunt Lucy had another goose in her lap 
and the picking was continued. 


ELIZA’S DISCOVERY 


57 


“Doesn’t it hurt them to pick them?” asked 
Susan. “It seems like it would.” 

“Lans no, chile,” said Aunt Lucy. “Wouldn’t 
dey be er hollowin’ ef hit did? Yer all stop axin’ 
questions. I can’t half work an’ talk no how.” 
Then she began another song: 

“Come ye fount uv ev — ry bless — in’ 5 

Tune my harp ter — sin-g yo praise. 

Dreams uv mer — cy never ceas — in’. 

(“I can balance myself on this barrel,” whis- 
pered William to Eliza.) 

“Foun — tun lies o — pen, 5 

Foun-tun lies o — pen. 

Sinner come ba — th yo — weary head.” 

“See,” whispered William, lifting himself by 
steadying his arms on the edge of the barrel and 
hoisting his legs over his head. The barrel, with 
so much weight on its edge, tilted, and William 
disappeared in its depths of feathers where he 
kicked and screamed until Aunt Lucy pulled him 
out by the feet. 

“I’m smothering to death,” he screamed, dancing 
back and forth, his mouth and head covered with 
feathers. “Somebody help me get rid of the 
things!” In his excitement he hugged Aunt Lucy, 
but she pushed him from her with no gentle hand. 

“Git erway, yer good-fur-nothin’ ! Didn’t I tell 


58 


ELIZA 


yer how ’twould be? Yer’ve ruined my feathers 
fur ever! Ill never in der worl’ pick ’em all up — 
never . Git out uv here, an’ don’t yer never come 
back no mo’.” 

“They are getting all down my windpipe,” said 
William uneasily. “I’ll help you, Aunt Lucy, as 
soon as I can breathe.” Aunt Lucy cast upon 
him a look of scorn. 

“Yer help yerself out jes’ as soon as yer legs gits 
able ter walk,” she said decidedly. “No sooner had 
I seen yer head pokin’ in at dat door terday den 
I sed ter myself, ‘Der’s er gwine ter be trouble,’ 
an’ sho’ ’nough look.” 

“You might know I never fell in on purpose” 
said William, feeling like a much injured person. 

“Oh, look, do look f* screamed Eliza. 

Everybody glanced in the direction she pointed 
and what they saw was enough to frighten them. 
A poor goose lay there, one of its sides terribly 
mangled and bleeding. 

“Whut done it?” asked Aunt Lucy bewildered. 

“A dog — a big yellow stray one. I saw it all 
through that big crack,” said Eliza, covering her 
face. 

“Pore goose,” said Aunt Lucy, picking it up and 
carrying it to her chair. She was a very old woman 
and not at all quick witted. 

“Shall I run to the house for Mother?” asked 
Eliza. 


ELIZA’S DISCOVERY 


59 


“Yes, chile,” said Aunt Lucy. “Yes, my lam’, 
jes’ yer go ter der house an’ tell yer mammy der 
dogs done killed er goose — fur hit is dead — hain’t 
hit?” 

Eliza didn’t tarry for a second bidding. On her 
way to the house she saw something else that shocked 
her. The gate was down in the orchard and the 
stock running in there loose, ruining all the new 
fruit trees. She quickened her pace and ran into 
the house. After a long search she found her 
mother going through boxes in the lumber room. 
Mrs. Dudley looked up, wondering as Eliza burst 
in. 

“Oh, Mother, do come quick! The dogs have 
killed a goose and the cows are ruining everything 
in the new orchard.” 

“See,” she cried as they reached the side porch 
from which a good view of the orchard could be 
obtained. “Just see, Mother! Oh, what shall we 
do?” 

“I told Mr. Hobbs about that gate last week,” 
said Mrs. Dudley. “He is always so forgetful.” 

“I don’t think he understands managing the 
farm, do you. Mother?” 

“No — no, I suppose not,” answered her mother 
absent mindedly. 

“Couldn’t Mr. Champe do better?” asked the 
persistent Eliza. 


60 


ELIZA 


“What on earth do you mean?” said Mrs. Dud- 
ley, startled. 

Eliza felt herself treading on doubtful ground. 

“I imagine he has such fine judgment, Mother,” 
she spoke unfalteringly, “and I’m sure he could 
fix things if he would come. Don’t you think he’s 
fine, Mother?” 

The mother looked down and met the upturned 
eyes without answering. 

“You love him too,” said Eliza convincedly. 

“Eliza, don’t speak so! It — it isn’t attractive,” 
said Mrs. Dudley, and Eliza hastened on subdued. 
In her mother’s tones more than in her words had 
been a decided reproof. 

As they entered the barn door Aunt Lucy lifted 
her black wrinkled face mournfully. She had lived 
with the Dudley family all her life, but like all 
others on the place her whole heart belonged to the 
present “mistis.” She held out the mangled goose 
meaningly, and Mrs. Dudley crossed over and laid 
a consoling hand on Aunt Lucy’s shoulder. 

“Never mind, Aunt Lucy,” she said. “Don’t 
you worry a bit. See that the dog is killed, for 
he must be vicious. You counted the geese, didn’t 
you, Aunt Lucy?” 

“Yes, ma’am, Miss Clarise. I counted ’em all 
but two an’ I couldn’t ketch dose ter count ’em.” 

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Dudley, checking the 


ELIZA’S DISCOVERY 


61 


children’s threatened laughter with upraised hand. 

“It might have made her feel badly to laugh at 
her ignorance,” she explained to them on their way 
back to the house. “It is never kind to hurt a 
person’s feelings.” 

“The very idea of her having to catch two things 
to count them,” laughed William. 

“She’s getting old and her mind is weak,” said 
Mrs. Dudley. 

“But, then, look what a good goose picker she 
is,” put in Susan. 

“And her muscle is something not to be laughed 
at,” declared William, remembering the shaking 
she had given him. 

“She can remember lots of songs,” said Stella. 

Eliza alone of the group remained silent. Her 
thoughts were busy though. In fact, her brain 
was working exactly like Mat’s yeast when she 
set it to rise. Her face felt very hot — it was be- 
cause of the overwhelming responsibility of having 
to decide on a wonderful undertaking — and decide 
alone. Joan of Arc herself couldn’t have felt much 
more depending on her, nor could she have been 
more steadfast in her determination to accomplish 
her mission. Eliza’s absolute faith in Mr. Champe 
and her love for him made her more and more cer- 
tain of the necessity of her plans; “for, I under- 
stand him perfectly,” she said over and over to her- 


62 


ELIZA 


self. “I understand him perfectly . He ought to 
know Mother loves him. He will be as glad as 
can be. I must be the one to go tell him. I under- 
stand him perfectly.” 


CHAPTER V 


ELIZA STARTS ON A JOURNEY 

W HEN Eliza had said she understood Mr. 

Champe, it was because, with a child’s 
love, she had entirely given her heart to 
him, and he had responded with a warmth of affec- 
tion equalling her own. 

Mr. Howell Champe was now in his forty-fifth 
year. On the death of his beloved wife some 
twenty years previous, very desolate and lonely, 
he had taken up his abode in a leading hotel, where, 
in its spacious dining-room he occupied a table near 
the entrance and people were wont to remark that 
his table was usually filled with his own guests. 

Possessing wealth, influence, and friends who 
numbered among the hundreds, yet in some re- 
spects he was a very lonely man. The things he 
craved — wife and family — he had not. Those who 
had known his wife, and known them together, said 
the absolute devotion to her memory made the 
thought of a second marriage seem a sort of sacri- 
lege. That he would have made a golden paradise 
on earth for any woman goes without saying. 
Such wealth of tenderness of which he was capable 

63 


64 


ELIZA 


was evinced by the affection bestowed on the chil- 
dren of the different households where he was in- 
timate, and the loyalty of his little friends was a 
source of the greatest enjoyment to him. Some- 
times he would even rock them to sleep and carry 
them off to bed, followed by a smiling nurse. 

He was kind and courteous to everybody. He 
loved the ladies with that friendly intimacy that at 
once made him exceedingly popular. Fearlessly, 
unstintedly, his opinion was given without apology, 
and everybody listened. Wherever he went, he 
ruled. From the millionaire who took him about 
in his private car, to the poor old candy seller who 
invaded his office weekly, he was beloved. Selfish- 
ness he abhorred above all things and had never 
been known to put personal enrichment above com- 
munity service. 

A week after the events of our last chapter, as 
Mr. Champe sat in his office after lunch feeling a 
little sleepy, the postman entered. Mr. Champe 
was wide awake at once. Mails interested him 
above everything, and he smiled as he assorted this 
unusually large one. The golden sun touched the 
light brown pompadour of his hair, combed straight 
away from a wide white forehead. “Any one 
would think me an editor,” he said, smiling, “for 
I’ve got so many this time.” Selecting one letter 
from the others he immediately cut through the top 


ELIZA STARTS ON A JOURNEY 65 


of its envelope. “I wonder now what Eliza can 
have to say,” he mused, drawing out the folded 
sheet. Before reading it, however, he took a small 
silver match safe from his pocket and with a deft 
stroke ignited the waxen match and lit his cigar. 
He gave two or three deep draws, then, holding 
the cigar between his third and fore fingers, he read 
the letter twice without pausing. The cigar re- 
mained in his hand and went out unnoticed. His 
brow was drawn into a decided wrinkle. “What 
in the world can the child mean to tell me — and 
what can I do about it,” he said. Then, he read 
the letter over again, noting carefully each word: 

“Dear Mr. Champ e: 

“I have been such a long time in answering your 
letter that I wonder if it is too late. Mr. Champe, 
I am coming to see you to-morrow. I am going 
to walk through. I always did want to go slow 
through the country and see things, but this is the 
first time I have got a good reason for doing it. 
Please you meet me at the bottom of the big hill 
at the edge of town so you can carry my grip. I 
won’t get lost because I know the way good. I’ve 
got something very important to tell you, Mr. 
Champe. It is something I found out axerdent- 
ally. Mother and Susan both know I am going, 
but they don’t know what day exactly. No news 
on the farm. Good-by, Eliza. 


66 


ELIZA 


“P S You will be awful glad to hear it. Eliza. 

“P S I will start about sun up. E.” 

The letter was dated the day before; so this was 
the day Eliza meant to come. 

Just as Mr. Champe finished the third reading, 
a visitor entered the open door. Mr. Champe 
looked up, smiled, and leaned over to remove some 
papers from the chair opposite and make it ready 
for his guest. 

“Ah, Welche, sit down — have this chair.” A 
welcoming smile illumined Mr. Champe’s face. 
“Where have you been keeping yourself? Have 
a cigar with me — a new brand — called Romeo and 
Juliet — Cuban make and very fine.” 

The visitor did not take the proffered chair at 
once, but glanced at Mr. Champe’s mail and ran 
his small hand through his very black, slicked- 
combed hair, then down, touching his pointed beard 
and letting it eventually glide to his side again, 
his keen gray eyes taking in every detail of the 
situation at ^ glance. 

“I just ran up as soon as the bank closed to talk 
to you about a little matter — you lawyers can 
always straighten things in a jiffy where we bank- 
ers are slow as snails.” His voice gave the im- 
pression of being almost too deep and masculine 
for such a small man. “But, perhaps I’d best wait 
as you seem so occupied — ” 


ELIZA STARTS ON A JOURNEY 67 


“No, no; I can see you now — at once,” said Mr. 
Champe. “Sit down. Here, let me strike a 
match for you. I suppose the children are both 
well, and that you miss your neighbors, the Camp- 
bells.” 

“The children miss them — yes; but they seek 
comrades further away and I see less of them than 
ever. You know, though, I never found children 
— not even my own — interesting. They always 
seem selfish little souls to me — only loving you for 
what they get out of you. By the way, speaking 
of the Campbells, he is anxious to put some one 
in his house for the winter all furnished as it is. 
I wish we could find some one for him. He needs 
the rent, for his affairs are in a bad way, and be- 
sides, I hate to have that house standing vacant 
there — right next to me. It seems ridiculously 
superstitious I know, but the windows have re- 
minded me of dark unwinking eyes ever since they 
left. Hang it all — anybody would call it a bad 
conscience.” 

“It would be difficult to hit on the right person 
to take the house — using all their things just as they 
left them. A great responsibility, I am afraid. 
Mrs. Campbell spoke of it to me, but I don’t think 
it will be possible.” 

“Campbell’s affairs are in a bad way,” repeated 
Mr. Welche. “Purely confidential, you know, 


68 


ELIZA 


Champe, but, as his banker, I see the inside as no 
one else does. Now, this Florida trip, and doctor’s 
bills no doubt.” 

“I am very sorry to hear it — too bad. Camp- 
bell’s a good sort.” 

“Yes — but unfortunate,” said the banker, flick- 
ing the ashes from his cigar as if to say that ended 
him as far as he was concerned. “Well — now 
about this other business, Champe. I brought cer- 
tain papers with me — left the others in the vault 
where you can get them at any time.” 

One hour — two — passed as they bent over the 
documents together. Mr. Champe, glancing at his 
watch, hastily arose. 

“I’ll tell you what, Welche, it is in a considerable 
tangle, but I think I can straighten it — I must see 
those other papers. Have an engagement to meet 
and must go now — it’s very important.” 

“I’ll see you at the directors’ meeting to-night?” 
said Mr. Welche, rising. 

“I don’t think so. Am sure I couldn’t possibly 
be there by eight. If I find I can come later I 
may drop in toward the last of the meeting.” 

If a surprised look came into Mr. Welche’s eyes, 
he hastily suppressed it as he said, “You know that 
‘Ring’ matter comes up to-night and will be voted 
on.” 

“That’s so — I had forgotten that,” said Mr. 


ELIZA STARTS ON A JOURNEY 69 


Champe, rising. “It won’t be possible for me to 
go, though.” 

Mr. Welche’s eyes rested a minute on the letter 
— Eliza’s — lying half -open on the desk, but whether 
he thought of it or connected it in any way with 
Mr. Champe’s failure to attend the important meet- 
ing, no one could have told. Mr. Champe himself 
was again looking at it and felt impatient for the 
banker to be gone. But Mr. Welche never did 
anything quickly. It had been told that when his 
wife died and he had been hastily summoned from 
his bedroom to her own for a last farewell that he 
had been exceeding slow and she had breathed her 
last before he reached her. Be that as it may, now 
he opened his watch, glanced at its gold face, closed 
it, and placed it carefully back in his pocket be- 
fore holding out his hand to Mr. Champe. 

“Good-by then — I’ll vote for you by proxy if I 
am permitted. You want to vote for it, of course.” 

“Yes — yes,” said Mr. Champe absent-mindedly. 

As soon as the door closed he went back to Eliza’s 
letter, puzzled and frowning afresh. Soon he 
rose, putting all the other mail into his pocket un- 
opened. “I must go first to the courthouse, then 
right on out to Glenraven as fast as I can,” he said. 
“I must see into this. There’s no telling what that 
child is up to. I wonder what determined her to 
take such a plunge.” 


70 


ELIZA 


Exactly what had determined Eliza on taking 
such a plunge she couldn’t have told herself. It 
came from gradually thinking of it in an indistinct 
way, at first putting it from her as a dream not pos- 
sible to execute, but gradually wanting to do it so 
much that she could resist no longer. It grew to 
seem the exactly right and kindest thing to do ; the 
thing that would put the farm on a footing and 
make her mother happy. She had perfect con- 
fidence in Mr. Champe’s power to do this. The 
night she wrote the letter and addressed the enve- 
lope she felt the utmost satisfaction with herself. 
It didn’t once occur to her that what she meant to 
do was not at all in accordance with propriety. 
Susan was made acquainted with her plans, but 
only in a vague way and was cautioned not to speak 
of them. As Susan had been used all her life to 
Eliza’s make-believes, she never thought seriously 
of this one. Eliza was too honorable not to tell 
her mother about it also, but no impression was 
made at the time, although afterward what she had 
said w r as recalled. “Mother, I am going to see Mr. 
Champe some time — do you care?” 

“That depends,” answered her mother. 

“Then I’m going,” said Eliza, and there it rested. 
After writing her letter, she took all the pennies 
out of her savings bank, then got her best clothes 
together and fastened them in her leather satchel. 


ELIZA STARTS ON A JOURNEY 71 


Early morning found her started on her journey. 
She dropped the letter in the family mail box just 
outside the gate, where it would be taken up and 
mailed by Johnson at seven o’clock. One of the 
neighbors used the box, so it usually contained sev- 
eral letters and he would not be apt to notice hers. 
After hearing her letter drop to the bottom, she 
turned and looked toward the house for a last fare- 
well. 

It was too early for the servants to be up, but 
every window of the dear house seemed to say 
good-by. A cool breeze brought the honeyed fra- 
grance of white clematis and other flowers which 
Eliza breathed in gratefully with head thrown back. 
Only the black shepherd dog knew of her early 
rising and he stood close by, rubbing his nose 
against her dress. She let her disengaged hand 
caress his head while her eyes took in further de- 
tails. At the right of the yard sloped the vege- 
table garden; beyond that was the plum orchard, 
and below that the creek. The plum orchard was 
not so attractive now as it had been in the spring; 
for then the ground beneath the blossoming trees 
was so thickly spread with violets that you feared 
to tread lest you destroy them. On the left of the 
yard was the woody cows’ lot, a box hedge separat- 
ing that from the yard. Beyond the cows’ lot was 
the apple and peach orchard. Dew berries grew 


72 


ELIZA 


there and once they had caught, right among the 
berries, a white rabbit with pink ears! It was 
wonderful, and the children had concluded God 
had dropped it down for them. Beyond the 
orchard, wheat fields, now golden, waved like beck- 
oning wands. It was toward these that Eliza’s 
journey lay. 

Stooping, she kissed the old shepherd dog, say- 
ing, “I must say good-by to some one, doggie, if 
it’s only you.” Then she made him go back to the 
house, laughing softly at his seeming reluctance to 
do so. “It’s so lovely to be out early,” she said, 
jumping up and down. “No wonder Shepherd 
wants to go along, but I don’t want Shepherd, for 
he might catch my dress and try to pull me back 
like he did once when I was little and ran off. I 
am going on my own hook for once. Oh, look at 
the lovely cobwebs stretching over that rose bush. 
I believe the fairies have been at work. If I had 
been up a little earlier I might have caught one — 
that big thing couldn’t be a spider web surely! 
Oh, look at that blue bluebird! I never was so 
happy in my life — never!” 

But difficulties began to arise before she had gone 
very far. The satchel grew so heavy she had to 
change it continually from one hand to the other. 
She wondered why she had ever attempted such a 
silly thing as loading herself down with it. “I 


ELIZA STARTS ON A JOURNEY 73 


couldn’t have done without it,” she said, “for no- 
body ever travels without clothes, yet, how ever am 
I going to get there with it? It feels like lead, it’s 
so heavy.” 

In about an hour the burden became intolerable 
and she sat down under a big oak tree to rest and 
think. She wiped the moisture from her forehead 
and looked up the dusty road that seemed endless. 
As she looked her courage began to wane. After 
all, what did clothes matter? The important thing 
was to get there. About seven miles more lay 
ahead and the day was growing hotter. Slowly she 
opened her grip and examined its contents. There 
was certainly no use taking a change of shoes or 
two dresses. Separating the things into piles, she 
discarded everything except one dress and some 
handkerchiefs. These she put back in the grip, 
then searched for a place to conceal the others. 
Some hogs were rooting in a haystack near. She 
drove them away and tucked her garments into the 
scooped out place they had made, pushing them 
back as far as she could reach. With a sigh of 
relief, she resumed her journey. 

The August sun grew hotter and hotter. The 
road grew longer and the dust got deeper. Be- 
fore she was beyond the boundary of her own farm 
she felt covered with dust and grime. A little 
negro girl peeping through a rail fence attracted 
her attention. 


7 4 


ELIZA 


“Well, I’ll declare if it isn’t Laura Belle, Aunt 
Sukie’s child! How you have grown,” cried Eliza, 
glad now to see a familiar face. 

“I’m nine an’ er half,” Laura Belle declared, 
grinning. 

“Are you ’specially busy?” asked Eliza sweetly. 
“For if you are not, I wish you would go with me 
and carry this grip some. Do you want to?” 

“Yas’um — leastways, I would ef I wuzn’t lookin’ 
ter ketch some pattridges in my trap an’ I has ter 
stay ’roun’ here an’ watch out fur ’em,” answered 
Laura Belle. 

“This isn’t the time of year to catch partridges,” 
said Eliza. “You know they have their little birds 
now and if you caught the mother they’d starve. 
You surely wouldn’t want to do a thing like that! 
Anyway, by helping me you would be making some 
money. Listen to this.” She shook her purse 
temptingly. Laura Belle grinned some more and 
her eyes grew big. 

“Whar’s you gwine?” she asked noncommit- 
tantly. 

“To town,” answered Eliza, smiling. “I wish 
we might meet up with somebody we knew, who 
would let us ride.” 

“I’ll go with you part of the ways,” said Laura 
Belle, picking up the grip and starting off. Eliza 
lingered, looking at her critically. 


ELIZA STARTS ON A JOURNEY 75 


“If you had on a nicer dress, Laura Belle, and 
if your mother knew you were going, I might take 
you all the way. Aunt Sukie wouldn’t like you to 
go to town with those rags on.” 

“Ma’s washin’ down by the spring, so I kin slip 
in der front way an’ git my clothes ’thout her seem’ 
me.” 

“I won’t have anything like that,” declared 
Eliza. “Whoever goes with me must do it right 
and not have any underhanded ways. Couldn’t 
you come out and tell her plainly that I asked you 
to go?” 

“I mought be able to ’suade her,” said Laura 
Belle, who had suddenly formed an intense desire 
to see the city; “an’ den ergin I moughtn’t. 
’Twouldn’t be der furst time I have run off no- 
ways.” 

“I know that,” answered Eliza reflectively, “but 
in history, Laura Belle, campaigns were always 
more successful where leaders were honest and up- 
right. I say again, I won’t be underhanded, 
Laura Belle.” 

“Here’s der cabin,” said the girl. “I’ll go git 
’em on an’ you wait here. Yes’um” (at Eliza’s 
unasked question), “yes’um, I’ll tell her.” But 
Eliza did not hear her mutter under her breath, 
“if I sees her.” She did not have long to wait. 
In about five minutes Laura Belle came running 


76 


ELIZA 


back wearing a clean dress, her face slick from its 
recent soap scrub. 

“How nice you look,” said Eliza. “Did you 
have much trouble persuading Aunt Sukie?” 

“No’m.” 

“I didn’t think you would. It’s always best to 
be open about things, Laura Belle.” 

“Yes’um.” 

“We would have felt like the very old bad man 
if we had stolen off, Laura Belle.” 

“Yes’um” (fainter). 

“It would have been almost as bad as house 
breaking.” 

N o answer. 

“It is so much nicer to have you along,” she 
said. “I was getting lonesome. I don’t see why 
on earth I didn’t make Susan come. Susan never 
seems to take to things I plan. I would give any- 
thing if Susan was exactly like me — anything . 
Twins ought to be alike ’cause she’s half of me 
like the half of an apple, but, though we’re alike 
on the outside, we ar’n’t on the inside a bit. I’m 
glad I’m like myself, though, because I am wonder- 
ful about imagining and Susan can’t imagine a 
bit. It’s like having something all your own to 
keep cheerful with. It’s a bubbling spring, Laura 
Belle, that never goes dry — it’s — it’s better than 
a gold mine, Laura Belle.” 


ELIZA STARTS ON A JOURNEY 77 


“Ma’am?” (puzzled). 

“When you get tired of that grip, I’ll carry it 
awhile,” said Eliza. “You ought to have seen it 
awhile ago, I left most of the things in a straw- 
stack.” 

“I kin tote it,” said Laura Belle. “Here comes 
Jack. I never kin seem ter leave dat dog behin’.” 
A little fox terrier ran up, wagging its tail. 

“It’s nice to have him come,” said Eliza, stoop- 
ing to pat him on the head. “Nice doggie. Jack, 
you’re going along to keep the buggers off us, 
ar’n’t you?” 

“What buggers?” asked Laura Belle suspi- 
ciously. 

“Why, didn’t you know we’d have to sleep on the 
way, perhaps? Of course we may make it before 
dark, but I imagine we’ll get to Mud-creek about 
that time where we can camp out. That’s lots of 
fun. Did you ever try it?” 

“No’am,” said Laura Belle, in whose mind was 
forming a wild idea of abandoning the chase and 
striking for home. 

“We did once,” said Eliza cheerfully. “We had 
tents and things and a cook and even a mosquito 
bar over us. If you’ve never done it you don’t 
know how nice it feels to lie awake at night looking 
right up at the stars until you go to sleep. I 
always have wanted to go again. Let’s climb the 


78 


ELIZA 


fence, Laura Belle, and get out of this dust. I 
imagine it will be a closer cut through the fields, 
anyway.” 

They climbed the fence and kept to the fields 
mostly, which no doubt was the cause of Johnson’s 
missing them in his search back and forth on that 
road. However, instead of shortening the route 
as Eliza expected, it really prolonged it for they 
had to go back several times because of impassable 
places. Intent on what she was doing, Eliza for- 
got about dinner until late in the afternoon. 
“Why, I know you must be hungry, Laura Belle,” 
she said suddenly. “Open that grip and I’ll give 
you something to eat. There! we’ll eat as we go. 
It’s a little late for dinner and too early for sup- 
per.” 

“I wishes we had er place ter git some water,” 
said Laura Belle, her hunk of buttered bread fast 
disappearing. 

“We will get to Mr. Isreal’s farm soon,” said 
Eliza, who was well acquainted with the route, “and 
then you can go to the back door and get some 
water and bring some out to me.” 

Pausing often to point out things of interest; 
resting every now and then because Laura Belle 
got tired, the hours flew and it was almost dark 
when they reached Mud-creek and rested on its 
banks. Eliza took her shoes off and dipped her 


ELIZA STARTS ON A JOURNEY 79 


feet in and out of the water awhile. “This creek 
isn’t so nice as ours at home,” she said, “but it’s 
deeper. I believe it is over my head in some places. 
Don’t I wish I had my fishing rod, for I am too 
tired to go another step to-night — that’s certain.” 

Laura Belle said nothing, but the whites of her 
eyes grew larger as night approached. 

“Eliza,” she at last whispered hoarsely, “sup- 
posin’ dere’s snakes on dese here banks?” 

“I am not afraid, Laura Belle,” said Eliza 
sweetly, composing herself as she spoke, and rest- 
ing her head against the grassy bank. “I hope 
I’ll go to sleep right away and not wake up till 
morning. I am so tired that I think I shall.” 

“Ef I wuzn’t skeered,” said Laura Belle, “I’d 
light out an’ run home right now. It ’ud be er 
heap easier dan er settin’ here all night.” 

“Only wicked people are scary, Laura Belle,” 
said Eliza, “and you know very well that we are 
not wicked.” 

“We’ve runned erway,” said Laura Belle soberly. 

“But they were all told,” argued Eliza. “We’ve 
got that to the good. I wouldn’t be ashamed to go 
to heaven this very night and tell God what I’ve 
done. We wouldn’t have to go to heaven to do it 
though, for God is right inside of us, Laura Belle 
— a little piece of God, of course. Mammy Mat 
said I asked her when I was little to let me cut her 
open and see what God looked like.” 


80 


ELIZA 


“Oh, Lordy!” groaned Laura Belle, whose con- 
science was pricking terribly. She covered her 
face with both hands. 

“Let me tell you a tale, Laura Belle,” said Eliza. 
“Maybe that will get you sleepy. Once there was 
a good little girl and a bad little girl. N o use tell- 
ing how they acted, for you naturally know. Well, 
when the good little girl died, she went to Heaven 
of course, and she played 'See-saw/ and ‘Base,’ 
and everything nice with the bright angels up there 
and had good things stacked up for her to last for- 
ever and ever; and then, when the little bad girl 
died and — ” 

“Don’t tell me no mo’,” said Laura Belle, “I’ze 
de bad girl cause I hain’t never tole my ma whar 
I’ze gwine terday, an’ I tole you er story.” Her 
voice broke and Eliza couldn’t help but pity her. 

“I must say I’m surprised,” said Eliza after a 
pause. “But you’ve confessed, and that will make 
you feel a sight better. If your conscience don’t 
prick any more, you’ll get sleepy. Now let’s shut 
our eyes, Laura Belle, and we’ll soon be off.” 

A certain expression that appeared on Laura 
Belle’s face made Eliza sit up straight. 

“I actually believe I’m not so sleepy after all,” 
she said. “You were nice to come with me, Laura 
Belle, and I am going to tell you something lovely 
I made up. I have told it to Stella and Susan lots 


ELIZA STARTS ON A JOURNEY 81 


of times. It is about an old wolf, who always 
walked on his hind legs and talked just like a per- 
son ! Then there was a mean wolf, who was always 
trying to catch the good wolf unawares. And so, 
one day when the good wolf had walked miles and 
miles to get some rhubarb for his baby wolf, he 
reached home to find his baby wolf and wife wolf 
all gone — stolen, Laura Belle! And he hunted 
and hunted for them until at last he reached an old 
house in the deepest, darkest center of a deep 
woods,” — Eliza paused, for Laura Belle was sit- 
ting on her toe and was trying to crowd closer. 

“Why, what on earth is the matter ?” asked 
Eliza. “Don’t you like my tale?” 

“Yas’um — no’am — leastways — I means no’am,” 
answered Laura Belle, her eyes rolling and her 
teeth chattering. 

“I actually believe you are scared, you silly 
child,” said Eliza disgustedly. “You hav’n’t any 
sense, Laura Belle. Good-night. I’m so sleepy 
I don’t know what to do, anyway. Shut your eyes 
and I’ll say, ‘Eny meny miny mo, catch a nigger 
by his toe, if he hollows let him go, eny meny miny 
mo’; or, would you rather have this, ‘Fee, fie, fo, 
fum, I smell the blood of an Englishmun; be he 
alive or be he dead, I’ll grind his bones to make 
my bread’?” 

Laura Belle’s eyes had grown larger and larger. 


82 


ELIZA 


She was frightened within an inch of her life, and 
had fully made up her mind that as soon as Eliza 
slept, she was going to run back home as fast as 
possible. Eliza now found that she could not prop 
her eyes open a minute longer. 

“Good night, Laura Belle,” she said sleepily, 
“rest well, for we’ve done a big kindness to-day. 
It was the best day’s work in the world. Good 
night.” Turning over, she lifted her face to the 
stars and was soon asleep. 

An hour passed. If any one had chanced that 
way he would have thought her one of the lost babes 
in the wood (for the other had flown) . She lay on 
a nest of late summer foliage — mint, ferns and 
grasses. A breeze fanned the curls over her face 
and she smiled in her sleep to thank the breeze. 


CHAPTER VI 


THAT GOOD MAY COME OF IT 

“T^LIZA — ELIZA” — the voice sounded a 
■H great way off — “Eliza! wake up, dear. 

^ I never saw a child sleep so soundly.” 

Eliza opened her eyes. The voice belonged to a 
man stooping near her. 

“Where on earth did you come from, Mr. 
Champe?” she asked. It was yet night for the stars 
filled the shining land overhead. 

“I came from Glenraven, where I hastened on 
account of your letter. Your mother is very 
anxious about you.” 

“I am sorry for that,” said Eliza. “Mother 
ought to know I’ll be taken care of.” 

“You are chilly,” said Mr. Champe solicitously. 
“Oh, little dream girl mine, come, let me wrap my 
buggy robe around you.” 

“I wish you would,” said Eliza. 

He lifted her and carried her to his buggy a few 
yards away. 

“Well, if there isn’t Laura Belle,” exclaimed 
Eliza, seeing that little darky seated in the foot of 
the buggy, hugging the dog Jack with both arms. 

83 


84 


ELIZA 


“She’s a deserter,” said Mr. Champe, smiling. 
“We can’t scold her though, for I couldn’t have 
found you if I hadn’t first found her. You should 
have seen her when I ran her down. She was chas- 
ing up the road yelling as loud as she could and 
shying at her own shadow. When I tried to catch 
her she yelled louder than ever. It took me about 
twenty minutes to make her understand that I 
wasn’t going to injure her. Then I made her come 
back to help locate your camping place. She was 
very much opposed to coming.” 

“I thought you wuz er wolf er standin’ on hits 
hin’ legs,” said the cowardly Laura Belle. 

“She was mighty good company for me,” said 
Eliza. “Wasn’t it yesterday or was it the day be- 
fore when we went off together ?” 

“It was to-day,” said Mr. Champe; “it is only 
nine o’clock now.” 

“It seems like it was longer, somehow,” said 
Eliza. 

For some time they both were silent. The quiet 
stillness of the summer’s night was broken only by 
the horse’s hoofs as he trotted quickly toward home. 
Suddenly Mr. Champe stooped and lifted Eliza’s 
face to his. 

“What was it you had to tell me? Tell me quick 
— now,” he said. 

“Sir?” Eliza spoke slowly — uncertainly. 


THAT GOOD MAY COME OF IT 85 


“You must remember your letter, Eliza. What 
was the something you were going to tell me?” 

Eliza did not speak. 

“Did you hear me?” Mr. Champe spoke shortly. 
“Go on, dear. Don’t you remember?” 

“I remember well enough,” said Eliza sweetly. 

“Then tell me; I can’t half wait.” 

Eliza slowly shook her head. She didn’t know 
what possessed her, but to tell the secret she thought 
she had discovered — her mother’s, not her own — 
suddenly seemed like a sort of betrayal, and she 
was incapable of telling it. 

“Did you hear me?” persisted Mr. Champe. 

Eliza shook her head more resolutely. Mr. 
Champe drew her to him and kissed her twice. She 
returned the kiss, clinging to his neck as a baby 
might have done. Then she found her voice. 

“I can’t, Mr. Champe. Isn’t it funny that I 
went through so much to tell you, and now I can’t? 
I don’t know what’s the matter. I — er — just can’t 
— that’s all. Something won’t let me, Mr. 
Champe. I hate to mind that something, but I 
have to. 

“There are other things — little things — though 
that I want to tell you about,” she added brightly, 
smiling, and hoping Mr. Champe would smile too. 

“I am very much disappointed,” said Mr. 
Champe, “very” “You are unsatisfactory, Eliza. 


86 


ELIZA 


I don’t see why you don’t tell me. I would never 
mention it if you didn’t wish.” He kissed her 
again, then lighted a fragrant cigar and began to 
smoke. “Tell me the other little things, then,” he 
said presently. “I suppose I must be contented 
with a half loaf.” 

“Mother can tell you the other,” said Eliza con- 
solingly. She really felt very dissatisfied with her- 
self. “And the other little things are about Mr. 
Hobbs and his bad management of our place — and 
then, there’s some trouble with notes mother’s hav- 
ing. You are a lawyer and know how to do any- 
thing,” she added in a quaint way. 

“And I will — anything I can do,” he said de- 
cidedly. Then he added quietly, “For there’s no- 
body’s little girl I love as well as I love you.” 

“Do you really mean that?” she asked with shin- 
ing eyes. “Do you really mean it?” 

“Indeed I do — every word of it.” 

“Good!” said Eliza, pressing his hand happily. 

Mrs. Dudley’s first words on seeing Eliza were 
not at all what any one would have expected: 
“Eliza, my little girl, don’t you think you made a 
mistake, darling?” Her arms were around Eliza, 
but her eyes — such eyes — looked squarely into Mr. 
Champe’s. “How can I thank you enough!” she 
said. 

Eliza wriggled from her mother’s clasp and 


THAT GOOD MAY COME OF IT 87 


looked upon everybody. Mr. Champe had sent a 
fore-runner to announce her discovery, so, the dif- 
ferent expressions on the different faces were in- 
teresting. “A million years have gotten jumped 
into one little day,” Eliza exclaimed. “I feel like 
— like — who was that man who slept for twenty 
years, Mother?” 

“Don’t you think it was a mistake to go?” her 
mother asked again. 

“Well, Mother, no, I don't! I am sorry you wor- 
ried. I thought you’d understand and not worry, 
Mother. But, it wasn’t any mistake. Good will 
be sure to come of it, Mother, for I forsook you 
and Susan and all the rest, because it seemed the 
right thing to do.” 

Again Mrs. Dudley surprised her listener. 

“If that was your reason, Eliza, you did right,” 
she said. The confidence shining out of her eyes as 
they rested on Eliza was a revelation to Mr. 
Champe, who had watched the scene with intense in- 
terest. 

But if the mother had not scolded, there were 
some who had, and with a vengeance. Mat, after 
hugging Eliza sufficiently, had given her the big- 
gest scolding of her life, and Johnson had put in a 
word also whenever he could get in one edgeways. 
Eliza, with Susan by her side, listened patiently 
for awhile ; then, giving a sigh, she said to J ohnson, 


88 


ELIZA 


“Get thee behind me, Satan! You are just look- 
ing at it from a selfish point-stand. Suppose I 
had been killed, Johnson — what hoots it?” 

Whether she knew what her words meant or not, 
certain it was, they struck both Mat and Johnson 
dumb for a minute, during which time she and 
Susan made their escape from the kitchen. 

“Dat chile’s gone plum’ crazy,” said Johnson, 
but Mat waved her rolling-pin at him for silence. 
“Hush, nigger,” she commanded. “My chilluns 
ain’t like other folkses’ chilluns — dey’s been raised 
on der Bible dey is, an’ some niggers ain’t fitten 
fur ter tie deir shoe laces.” 

After a late supper, and while the children were 
being taken off to bed by Mrs. Dudley, Mr. Champe 
drew his chair close to the lamp in the big draw- 
ing-room and took out his still unopened mail. He 
was in the midst of it when the mother returned and 
he held out Eliza’s letter, saying, “I want you to 
read this.” 

Mrs. Dudley’s face flushed deeply as she read. 
He watched her in silence. 

At last she looked up, saying quietly, “Eliza is 
a very peculiar child — there seems a development 
of consciousness beyond her years. Perhaps I have 
taken the children too much into my confidence; 
but they would have it and — it seemed the right 
thing to do.” 


THAT GOOD MAY COME OF IT 89 


Mr. Champe leaned over and touched her hand. 
“Won’t you take me into your confidence? Eliza 
refused to tell me what she had discovered, and I 
want very much to know.” 

Mrs. Dudley drew back. Into her beautiful 
eyes came a startled look — such as Eliza had sur- 
prised. When she spoke, there was no resentment 
in her voice — only a startled sweetness. 

“I knew she wouldn’t,” she declared. “Eliza is 
very honorable.” 

“But, she meant to when she started. How could 
you know she wouldn’t?” 

“Because,” answered Mrs. Dudley simply, “I was 
that way myself — when a child. I would do things 
— sacrificing freely on the spur of the moment be- 
cause I was convinced it was right, then something, 
a sort of revelation — and I was powerless to pro- 
ceed. It is something within us both that we can- 
not command but must obey because we realize we 
may have been mistaken in our first conception. 
Ah — it is useless to explain — no one could possibly 
understand except just us.” 

“I think I do,” Mr. Champe said quietly, “and I 
am glad it is as it is. I feel more reconciled than I 
did before about Eliza’s not telling me. Now, I 
want you to tell me all this trouble Eliza touched on 
about Mr. Hobbs and some fearfully worrying 
notes. I missed an important meeting to come 
here and I want to help you.” 


90 


ELIZA 


“Is it too late to go to the meeting now?” asked 
Mrs. Dudley, glancing toward the clock. 

Mr. Champe opened his watch. “Look,” said he, 
“nine fifty-five, and the meeting was at eight. No 
difference in the world. I have a substitute.” 

Mrs. Dudley sat back in her chair relieved. She 
found it rather comforting to tell him things for he 
listened with so much sympathy to very word. She 
ended, smiling as a child might who has a great 
load off its mind. “I don’t see how I can trouble 
you with these matters,” she said. “I know you 
will soon be wishing the Dudleys had never crossed 
your path.” 

“I’m not disputing that,” he said, smiling. “Do 
you care if I smoke?” 

“No, I like it.” 

“Smoking helps me to think and I’m glad you like 
it. My wife always liked it,” he added, lighting 
a cigar as he spoke. 

“While I’ve been watching you and listening,” 
he said, “an idea has come to me. Why don’t 
you let some person — a trustworthy family, and I 
think I know the very people — come here as care- 
takers and managers this winter? You need a 
change and don’t know it. Welche and I were 
talking just before I left to-day about a house next 
to him that is for rent furnished. You could take 
that house, put the children in school — why, it is 
the very thing T 


THAT GOOD MAY COME OF IT 91 


If anybody else had proposed it, Mrs. Dudley 
would have said he was crazy. That she did not 
say it of Mr. Champe showed her profound respect 
for his opinion, not that she was in the least con- 
verted by it, as her next words proved: 

“I never thought of such a thing,” she said. 
“You must know I couldn’t think of leaving home.” 

Mr. Champe continued as though not inter- 
rupted: “These people I suggest coming to care 
for the place are a Mr. and Mrs. Spencer, former 
managers of the old Dodd farm. They are most 
worthy people with an only child named Peter. I 
should like to see them installed here and Mr. 
Hobbs dismissed. Then, too, you would be doing 
a great kindness not only to yourself — and you 
really need the change more than you think — but to 
the people who have the house in town for rent. 
They need the money and there is nobody but you 
that I should be willing to suggest to them. Why, 
you would be a regular Godsend to those people, 
Mrs. Dudley.” 

Mrs. Dudley smiled. Mr. Champe had touched 
a vital chord — that of helping — and he knew he 
had, and she knew that he knew it. However, she 
steadfastly clung to her first resolution. 

“I couldn’t go, of course. I have been here so 
long. It will be very hard to tell Mr. Hobbs to 
go.” 


92 


ELIZA 


“Let me tell him,” said Mr. Champe, rising. “It 
would give me great pleasure to dismiss Mr. 
Hobbs.” 

“I am sorry for those poor people who can’t rent 
their house,” Mrs. Dudley continued; “I — er 
would love to take it off their hands and it would be 
a relief in a great many ways to go for awhile if I 
thought it right, but — I’ve been here so long, and 
I don’t like changes if they can be avoided.” 

“But can they?” he asked smiling, and held out 
his hand. “Good-by. I must go now. May I 
come again in a week and see what your decision 
is?” 

“My decision is made,” she assured him. “You 
know I told you that.” 

“Still I am coming soon again to see if you have 
changed your mind.” 

She smiled at his persistency. 

“I’ll let you come, of course,” she said; “and you 
don’t know how I thank you for all you’ve done.” 

“I know you do,” he replied, “and I also know 
this, there’s nobody in the world I’d rather have 
done it for. Rest easy about the notes. It’s the 
simplest matter to adjust.” He pressed her hand 
warmly, and was gone. 

Mrs. Dudley stood over the children a minute as 
she always did before retiring. Eliza’s rosy cheeks 
and half parted lips were too sweet not to kiss. 


THAT GOOD MAY COME OF IT 93 


“You foolish, bewitched little girlie,” murmured the 
mother, “you did it that good might come. Ah, if 
you had the making of this world, sorrow would be 
driven out and joy would fill all the crevices.” 


CHAPTER VII 


MRS. DUDLEY COMES TO A DECISION 

O NE morning about a week later the dapper 
little postman at the cross-roads station 
handed Johnson two letters and Johnson 
forthwith carefully conveyed them home and placed 
them beside “Miss Clarise’s” plate to await her com- 
ing down to breakfast. One of the letters bore the 
postmark of a Southern town and the other was 
from the East. That they came at this particular 
time has a great bearing on a number of things. 

“I should have been a boy,” announced Susan, 
clinging to her mother’s hand as they descended the 
broad stairway that morning. “One needs boys so 
much worse than girls.” 

“I would make a far better boy,” declared Eliza 
from the other side, “for I would have done things.” 

“I wouldn’t have let Mother have so much com- 
pany for one thing,” said Susan. It was the first 
time they had been without a visitor for a great 
while and the children appreciated it. 

“Mother is a Christian — she serves people,” 
Eliza said. “It is a right grand thing to have a 
Christian for a mother, Susan.” 

94 


MRS. DUDLEY COMES TO A DECISION 95 


“We would all grow selfish if we remained by 
ourselves all the time, no matter how pleasant it 
might seem,” said Mrs. Dudley. 

As she spoke, they reached the wide open doors 
of the dining-room and the letters were discovered 
first thing. Mrs. Dudley examined them while the 
children hung over her. “This one is from Miss 
Sallie,” she said, indicating the letter which bore the 
Southern postmark, and this — why, it must be from 
Aunt Jane! We’ll open it first.” 

“How funny it is underscored,” exclaimed Eliza. 
“Does she emphasize her words like that when she 
talks, Mother?” 

“No — no. Only when she writes. I can’t im- 
agine what she can be writing about — Ah!” — run- 
ning her eyes hastily down the page — “She is com- 
ing to visit us — Aunt Jane is actually coming after 
all these years. Listen, I’ll read it all: ‘Dear 
Clarise, I very hastily decided last night that I 
wanted to come and make you a visit right away . 
I want to stay a long while and see my great nieces 
whose acquaintance I have never made. My heart 
yearns so for my own people , and since your dear 
sister’s death — our dear Louisa — I want you , and 
want everything forgotten , so I may have you as I 
used to have you! Write me at once if my coming 
will be entirely convenient, for of course it all de- 
pends on that. Lovingly, your Auntie / ” 


96 


ELIZA 


“It’s a curious letter,” said the children. “What 
on earth does she mean, Mother?” 

“Why — I was off at school when I married your 
dear Father, and my aunt, who had made herself 
my guardian, never forgave me. I couldn’t do 
very much toward a reconciliation because your dear 
F ather wouldn’t allow it. He thought the stand she 
took an unwarranted prejudice against himself, but 
it wasn’t that so much as it was because she had 
not been consulted. Aunt Jane is very exacting 
of those she loves — very tender at times — very 
demonstrative. I was always fond of her although 
she was not the least like her sister, my mother. I 
am the only near kindred she has, now Louise is 
gone. I am very glad she is coming. She has 
means to go wherever she likes — is financially in- 
dependent — so we ought to know it is pure love 
that brings her to us.” 

“Read what Miss Sallie says,” cried the children. 
The other letter was opened and found to contain 
news even more surprising. 

“I have suddenly decided to marry,” Miss Sallie 
wrote. “It is to a man I have loved for years, but 
this step is decided upon all in a minute. I am 
worried on your account, for I know you have de- 
pended somewhat on my coming back to teach. It 
is all a complete surprise to me, but I am very 
happy. Love to the dear children — in haste, your 
loving Sallie Gardner.” 


MRS. DUDLEY COMES TO A DECISION 97 


“Who’ll teach us?” the children cried in dismay. 
“We wouldn’t want anybody but Miss Sallie. 
Mother, what can we do?” 

“I must think,” said Mrs. Dudley. “You-all 
must go to school and yet — to fill her place will be 
impossible. I hope she may be very happy. Let’s 
hurry and finish our breakfast so we can write to 
her. She must know we are glad of her happiness 
in spite of our loss.” 

It was a very great loss and hung like a cloud 
over them all day. Miss Sallie had taught them for 
three years — in fact, they never had another teacher. 
It was quite late in the afternoon when Mrs. Dud- 
ley called them to her and made known Mr. 
Champe’s idea about the town house. “It never 
seemed advisable to take it until now,” she said. 
“I do feel that it is the only thing to do.” 

If the millennium had been coming Eliza and 
Susan could not have felt more surprise. “Why 
didn’t you tell us before. Mother?” they asked. 
“We could have been thinking it over with you. 
Mr. Champe must know it is best or he wouldn’t 
have proposed it.” 

“I told you good would come of it — I told you so, 
Mother. Now if I hadn’t taken that trip Mr. 
Champe never would have mentioned this — and 
where would we have been, Mother?” Eliza danced 
in her excitement. 


98 


ELIZA 


“We’ve forgotten about Aunt Jane’s coming,” 
said Susan. 

“No — no, I’ve been thinking of that and am quite 
certain Aunt Jane would far rather be with us in 
town for the winter. She never liked the country,” 
answered Mrs. Dudley. 

“She would like it here,” said Susan decidedly, 
looking a little ruefully around the room. “But 
we can all come back next summer, Mother?” 

“Of course. I hate to make a change too, Susan. 
I love all these things — they seem a part of us ; but, 
I suppose I’ll be better for a change. Lately I’ve 
not been able to sleep well. The maples rustling 
out there make me — Oh, I suppose my nerves are 
misbehaving.” 

Eliza and Susan immediately had both their arms 
about her. 

“You shan’t stay then — you shan’t, Mother. 
And we’ll pack all our own clothes, Mother. You 
won’t have to bother about our things. Just you 
see to yours, Mother, and don’t bother a bit more.” 

Mrs. Dudley smiled and arose. “I must write 
to Mr. Champe about the house at once — and to 
Aunt Jane,” she said. 

“Mother, where is Aunt J ane’s last picture ? We 
want to take a good look at her.” 

“It’s in the right pigeon-hole in my desk. Be 
careful not to disturb the papers there.” 


MRS. DUDLEY COMES TO A DECISION 99 


Both children were soon bending over a small 
photograph. Aunt Jane had been taken standing. 
She wore a stylish black velvet dress with a great 
deal of trimming. Her hair was the next most con- 
spicuous thing — gray, abundant, and stylishly 
combed. Her eyes were small and her mouth ap- 
peared wide, which might have been caused by the 
forced smile she wore. Her nose was good and 
straight. In her hand she held a lorgnette set with 
jewels. 

The children examined the photograph for a long 
while in silence. As they placed it back, Susan 
looked at Eliza for an expression of approval or 
disapproval, but Eliza, smiling sweetly, only re- 
marked, “She looks like a great aunt should look I 
suppose, Susan.” 

Of course, as soon as their going had been 
definitely decided upon, Eliza and Susan made a 
hurried trip over to Aunt Mollie’s to tell the news 
to Stella and William. Aunt Mollie, very blunt 
and kind, loved them almost as her own, and as soon 
as they had explained everything she shook her 
head, saying, “Umph! Clarise is going to town to 
squander her money. Whoever put that silly no- 
tion in her head?” 

The girls tried to explain fully — all about the bad 
Mr. Hobbs and how Mr. Champe had found a good 


100 


ELIZA 


Mr. Spencer for them, and how the change would 
be so good for mother, but Aunt Mollie stubbornly 
shook her head. 

“She was doing well enough here,” she said. 
“Clarise may jump from the frying-pan into the 
fire. Who knows anything about this Mr. Spen- 
cer?” 

“Dear Mr. Champe knows him well,” said Eliza, 
“and you can bet your life on Mr. Champe, Aunt 
Mollie.” 

“Umph !” said Aunt Mollie again, smoothing her 
immaculate apron with a plump hand, “Clarise is 
likely to get fooled yet. She is too good. That’s 
why we hate to see her go, I reckon, and why other 
folks like to see her come.” 

Miss Jane York’s views, however, as she sat in her 
beautiful room overlooking the Connecticut River 
and read the letter from her niece, were entirely dif- 
ferent from those of Aunt Mollie. “It is a very 
wise step — her moving to town. Now I shall en- 
joy a visit, I know. I always thought it queer her 
staying in that old country year in and year out. 
It’s a wonder she hasn’t died. She says she is not 
feeling herself — as though she had to make an ex- 
cuse for moving. Dear child! She was really al- 
ways my favorite until she took that unheard of 
step. I won’t allude to that though ever again.” 


MRS. DUDLEY COMES TO A DECISION 101 


And she drew her lips together in a very straight 
line. 

Miss Jane York was a woman of strong preju- 
dices, of peculiar eccentricities, and of lively imag- 
ination. Her friends were numerous and almost 
entirely among the rich. At home she had the 
reputation of being very charitable, but no one had 
ever accused her of keeping her left hand in ig- 
norance of the things done by her right hand. In 
fact she took particular delight in publishing to 
the left hand everything — little or big — and the 
praises of the world were her reward. 

Both the nieces had been her especial charges 
after the death of her sister, and when Clarise had 
committed the girlish indiscretion of marrying 
without consulting her, she, angry-hurt, had 
washed her hands of her without a moment’s hesi- 
tation, taking that love and giving it to the other 
sister, Louise, with whom she had made her home 
during the latter’s lifetime. Whether their lives 
together had been happy no one knew, but there 
were rumors of uncongeniality. Be that as it may, 
certainly she had grieved as sincerely for her as her 
nature permitted, and the vault wherein the body 
rested was the most beautifully kept one in the 
cemetery. 

Why Miss Jane had never married was a mys- 
tery to a great many. Not possessing beauty, 


102 


ELIZA 


which is really skin deep after all, she had a splen- 
did figure, was a brilliant conversationalist, quick 
at repartee, and a social success at any function. 
She always blew her own trumpet, so to speak, and 
no one who knew her was ignorant of her numer- 
ous conquests — lords among them — and, a-lacka- 
day, she gave the impression that there were yet 
hopes for more! 

Having traveled over the countries of Europe, 
yet she had never cared to see the beautiful West of 
her own land. “I suppose Clarise’s children are 
perfect little savages,” she said to herself, thinking 
no good could possibly come from the West. Go- 
ing to her desk, she took out their photograph and 
sat down with it in her hand. Eliza and Susan 
looked at her with fearless eyes. They wore simple 
white dresses. Their cheeks touched each other 
and Eliza’s curls flowed over Susan’s shoulders as 
well as her own. They appeared very happy and 
thoughtful — not at all like savages. Aunt Jane 
gazed at them for a long time, then replaced the 
picture without a single comment. 


CHAPTER VIII 


NEW IMPRESSIONS 

P ERHAPS if the days that followed had not 
been so full of everything new, Aunt Jane’s 
arrival would have been heralded as a more 
notable event. Mrs. Dudley had written and 
begged her to postpone her visit until they were set- 
tled and everything running smoothly, but she 
would have none of it. “I love a frolic,” she wrote, 
“and I want to help you get straight. It will be 
such fun, for as you know, I have grown just lazy 
from disuse ." And so, come she did, and was as 
good as her word in that the morning after her ar- 
rival she donned dustcap (a very fussy, beribboned 
one), and with skirts tucked about her, began to 
sweep vigorously. “What would my friends say 
if they could see me now?” she laughed, looking on 
them all from under the lacy frill with dancing eyes. 

“What are your friends like?” asked Eliza in 
honest wonderment, for sweeping and dusting 
seemed such a lovely useful process if there were a 
necessity for one’s doing it. 

“They are very much like me, precious,” said the 
aunt in a self-praisy voice. 

103 


104 


ELIZA 


Mrs. Dudley was plainly annoyed by her aunt’s 
doing the sweeping when there was Johnson ready 
to do it. 

“You’ll ruin your clothes,” she remonstrated. 
“Give me the broom, Aunt Jane — please do!” 

“I always finish what I undertake,” said the aunt 
determinedly, sweeping very hard under a sofa. It 
was a handsomely furnished room. Mrs. Dudley 
could well understand Mr. Champe’s reluctance to 
ask anybody whom he did not know to take the 
Campbells’ house. She wondered that she herself 
had not hesitated before assuming such a respon- 
sibility. 

“Children, you must go to school. Good-by. 
Don’t forget your lunch.” 

“Kiss me, both of you,” cried the aunt, pursing 
her lips into a round shape; “good-by (gaily) ; I 
love you both and am going to call you my little 
jewels.” 

“I wiped her kiss off when she turned,” whis- 
pered Susan to Eliza on their way out of the gate. 

“I want to mightily,” confessed Eliza. Susan 
noticed she was holding her hands down rigidly 
against her side. 

“Then why on earth don’t you do it?” 

“It wouldn’t be courteous,” declared Eliza 
grandly. 


NEW IMPRESSIONS 


105 


It was the second morning after their enrollment 
in the public school. They entered by the side 
door, pupils’ entrance, and walked into the hall arm 
in arm exactly like the picture of the two little 
princes in the tower. Being new, they forgot to put 
their hats and jackets in the cloak room, but went 
out as soon as reminded of it. Miss Lillian Rhodes, 
the teacher, watched them and she afterward said 
they were different from any of the other pupils — 
a sort of quaintness that hung about them. Being 
dressed exactly alike, no one could at first dis- 
tinguish them apart, except that Eliza’s hair hung 
in curls to her waist, while Susan’s was in two plaits 
which were tied with scarlet bows at the ends. 
After becoming known, they were not so much 
alike, however. Their eyes were different in ex- 
pression and color. Susan’s had a quick way of 
seeming to see everything while Eliza’s, though 
dreamy, saw a great deal more. Eliza’s were a 
grayer blue, too. 

“Susan,” she whispered, having allowed her 
glance to sweep the room once, “isn’t it going to be 
skylarky having so many to imagine stories about? 
Look at that thick haired boy with the black eyes 
and low forehead; isn’t he a perfect baboon type? 
And the boy to our right looks exactly like a rab- 
bit — even his mouth looks nibbly. That man talk- 
ing to Miss Lillian favors a devil’s horse, those 
green rearing ones like we had in the country.” 


106 


ELIZA 


“Hush,” whispered Susan, “he is the principal. 
Don’t you remember we saw him yesterday?” 

“I remember well enough,” answered Eliza 
sweetly, “but you can’t deny he looks like a devil’s 
horse the way he rears backwards and stalks like 
he is going to pounce on something. Isn’t Miss 
Lillian sweet ? I love to look at her — especially her 
hand with that pearl ring on it. It’s right aristo- 
cratic looking, I think. What on earth is she wav- 
ing it at us for?” 

“Because we are talking, I guess,” answered 
Susan, hastily assuming an upright position. 
(Their benches were opposite and they had been 
leaning across the aisle so as to whisper to each 
other without being heard.) 

Eliza looked surprised, but smiled indulgently 
and settled back into her seat. Miss Sallie down 
in the country had not been so strict about their 
talking, but then she only had four pupils to control 
where this teacher had a big room full. 

Just then Miss Lillian rose and went to the 
blackboard, where she began writing a long list of 
names with numbers opposite them. Eliza watched 
her silently until her curiosity got the better of her 
judgment and she leaned across the aisle to speak 
again to Susan. 

“What’s she writing about?” 

“Names,” whispered Susan, motioning Eliza to 


NEW IMPRESSIONS 


107 


sit back and hush, but Eliza paid no attention to 
her. 

“What for?” Eliza whispered. 

“I don’t know, hush !” 

Eliza turned to the neighbor on her right. 

“What’s that on the board for?” 

“It was the examination you were in yesterday,” 
came the answer. “The history examination of the 
newest pupils.” 

Eliza stood up and leaned far over in order to 
get a better view of the board. When she saw her 
own name at the head of the list with the highest 
mark she forgot everything else and spoke aloud. 

“Oh, look! Susan, do look at my name at the 
head. Ar’n’t I smart, and when I never tried at all 
hardly — Oh, Oh!” In her excitement she laughed 
gleefully. Miss Lillian turned around at once. 

“Who spoke without permission?” she asked. 

“I did,” said Eliza, rising (Miss Sallie had al- 
ways made them rise) . Eliza accompanied her ris- 
ing with one of her sweetest smiles because she was 
very pleased with herself. 

“I was so glad to see my name when I never was 
examined that way before in my life, and to think 
I got on the board,” she explained. “I never tried 
much, Miss Lillian, because I was new and all — 
and next time I guess I’ll get two hundred, if I 
got ninety-eight this time.” 


108 


ELIZA 


Miss Lillian smiled in spite of the fact that she 
shouldn’t. “Pupils who speak without permission 
are reprimanded,” she explained. “ Perhaps, as 
you are new, you do not yet know the rules.” 

“ What’s reprimanded?” asked Eliza. Susan 
tried to pull her down in her seat, but Eliza shook 
her hands off her dress skirt and added sweetly, “I 
don’t seem to remember what that means, Miss Lil- 
lian.” 

All the pupils began laughing, but Miss Lillian 
frowned at them. 

“Sit down, Eliza,” she said not unkindly. 
“Now, take your dictionary and look up the word 
‘reprimanded.’ I want all the pupils except Eliza 
and Susan, to remain after dismissal bell,” she said. 

“Teacher’s Pets,” could be heard whispered all 
along the aisle as they walked out of the room that 
afternoon. Susan looked highly scandalized, but 
Eliza was pleased. “It’s what I always am,” she 
asserted loud enough for the back row to hear and 
they looked sufficiently subdued to satisfy even her 
vanity. 

“Isn’t it grand?” she asked of Susan as they 
walked homeward. “To think we might still be 
buried in that old office studying with nobody ’cept 
Willie and Stella.” 

“I liked it,” said Susan a little wistfully. 

“I did too,” Eliza admitted. “But I like this 


NEW IMPRESSIONS 


109 


better. I would never be satisfied back there again 
to know things like these were happening every 
day and I was missing it. I never told you, Susan, 
but I used to sometimes be imagining things when 
I’d come to a place where I couldn’t go on. It was 
right pitiful I’d feel so flattish. It was like I 
couldn’t satisfy myself all the time with imagining 
the real thing, I wanted it to be real sure enough. 
Everything’s grand now — and the best of all is to 
think we live in the very same town with Mr. 
Champe.” 

“He’s fine,” said Susan with more enthusiasm 
than she had hitherto shown. 

“If it hadn’t been for me — going to get him that 
time — ” began Eliza, but Susan stopped her ears. 

“I know what’s coming,” she interrupted, “you’ve 
said it so much Eliza that I know it off by heart, ‘if 
it hadn’t been for me we wouldn’t have been here!’ ” 

Eliza looked at her reproachfully. 

“I think you might let me brag about the one 
thing I love to brag about, ’specially since you see 
what a lovely change it made in everything,” she 
said. 

“You heap credit on yourself all the time. Why 
do you do it, Eliza?” 

“It gives me joy,” acknowledged Eliza. “I 
don’t see why you don’t like it in me, Susan.” 

They entered the house, skipping. 


110 


ELIZA 


“Come back and hang up your school satchel,” 
called Susan. Eliza returned reluctantly. 

“Susan,” she said, picking up her books, “if 
you’ll take these and put them on the school shelf. 
I’ll give you two of my agates.” 

“Why can’t you do it?” asked Susan, surprised 
at the magnificence of the offer. 

“It’s against my religion,” replied Eliza. “I 
like to drop things where I go, for then I can always 
find them. All I have to do is to retrace my 
travels.” 

“But why not have a place?” 

“Because it’s too much trouble, and besides, it’s 
silly to have a place for things. God don’t! He 
just puts us all here and lets us drift around and 
settle finally like those autumn leaves we used to 
try to catch. Fancy a fixed place. Ugh! I’d 
hate to have to live in one.” 

“You talk so silly, Eliza; I hate to listen to 
you,” said Susan, taking the proffered books. 
“Now to-morrow you’ll be saying ‘Susan, where are 
my books? you had them last.’ ” 

“I can’t help it,” sighed Eliza. “I can’t seem to 
remember when things are placed. I’m not run- 
ning on schedule time any longer, Susan.” 

“You never did run that way,” was the reply. 
Susan took Eliza’s shortcomings very much to 
heart. 


NEW IMPRESSIONS 


111 


“What a happy family,” said Mr. Champe that 
same evening. They were all gathered in the big 
living-room. The fire in the wide fireplace was 
cheerfully doing its part, and the big yellow Jap- 
anese globe on the electric lamp mellowed the 
greens and browns of the room. It was Mr. 
Champe’s first call. “But I have wanted to come 
before,” he declared, lighting a cigar and pulling 
the two children very close to his side. “Where 
is your aunt? This call is on her also.” 

“She has a very bad headache,” answered Mrs. 
Dudley. “She did too much to-day. That is the 
way Aunt Jane has always been — getting excited 
and overdoing — then the consequences. No one 
can ever do a thing with her.” 

“Then don’t try,” he recommended, seeing the 
worried expression in Mrs. Dudley’s eyes. “Don’t 
you like this house? Are you glad you came?” 
smiling. 

“Yes — I am. It seems like home — more so than 
I ever expected. But Mat and Johnson being here 
make it seem so — and it is nice to know that they 
like it as well as we do.” 

“Eliza, what about you and Susan? How’s pub- 
lic school to your liking?” 

“We think it fine. Things are happening every 
minute,” said Eliza. 

“If Eliza would just keep her seat and not be 


112 


ELIZA 


bobbing up all the time saying things,” complained 
Susan. 

“I can’t seem to help it,” answered Eliza. “I 
wish Susan would leave me alone. Anyway, I 
never answered a single question that Miss Lillian 
didn’t ask.” 

“You answer them so funny, though,” said 
Susan. “Now, when Miss Lillian asked the school 
where the Mason and Dixon’s line was, Eliza 
bobbed right up — I knew she didn’t know — and 
she said in her sweetest tone, ‘I don’t seem to re- 
member exactly where it is, Miss Lillian, but I know 
I live on the right side of the line,’ and everybody 
laughed.” 

“You little rebel,” said Mr. Champe, laughing 
heartily. 

“Mr. Champe, who is it lives next door?” asked 
Eliza. 

“Mr. Welche — president of the Fourth National 
Bank. He has two youngsters about your ages.” 

“I’ve been watching them. The boy can climb 
as good as I can, and he rides a little better.” 

“I thought you said you could do it, Eliza,” in- 
terrupted Susan. 

“Well, I think I can after I practice some. I 
never rode standing straight up on a pony’s back, 
but I can — at least I mean to try.” 

“Be careful when you do,” said Mr. Champe, 


NEW IMPRESSIONS 


113 


“for I’ve known even small ponies to kick severely.’’ 

“Our Montie don’t kick. When are you going 
to send for him, Mother?” 

“Next week — if possible. He’s a country pony, 
you know, maybe he won’t like town so well.” 

“He’ll like it better if he takes after me,” said 
Eliza. “I’m having the time of my life.” 

They all laughed at her enthusiasm. 

“I am afraid you are not very loyal, dear,” said 
Mother. “New friends must not make us forget 
the old.” 

“I’m not forgetting them,” answered Eliza. “I 
may want to see them real bad by next summer 
when we all go out there, but I’m glad summer is 
a long way off.” 

“Eliza, you put yourself in such a bad light, dear, 
and I know you have a warm heart really,” said 
Mother. 

“I love everybody some ” said Eliza. “I love 
you, Mr. Champe and Susan a heap, but I love 
myself really best because I enjoy what I do so 
much more than what you all do. Oh, I’m a selfish 
prig.” 

“Don’t you want to see Stella already?” asked 
Susan, after a painful silence on her part. 

“Well — Stella’s a dear, but I am not pining for 
her yet. I’d lots rather know that doll-baby look- 
ing girl next door.” 


114 


ELIZA 


“I thought you said you didn’t care for her.” 

“I did say that, but she is so pretty. I can’t 
help loving pretty people, Susan.” 

“Pretty is as pretty does,” quoted Mother. 

“She don’t do so very pretty,” said Eliza. “I 
don’t fancy the way she switches down the aisle at 
school, do you, Susan?” 

“Yes, it’s so graceful,” answered Susan. 

“I don’t consider it so,” said Eliza, inwardly 
determining to conquer that swaying tiptoe move- 
ment before many more days. “Her eyes would be 
prettier if she didn’t roll them, don’t you think so, 
Susan?” 

“I like that part of them — they look so — er — in- 
teresting,” replied Susan. 

“Susan,” said Eliza desperately, “would you like 
to have a sister like that?” 

“Well — I don’t know,” replied Susan thought- 
fully. “She is rather disdainful for a sister, I 
think.” 

“What’s disdainful?” asked Eliza, feeling sure 
it was something very nice. 

“It’s feeling better than you are, I think,” replied 
Susan. 

“I’d adore to feel that way,” Eliza admitted. 
“The trouble with me is feeling worse than I am 
and knowing I’m better than I’m feeling.” 

“I thought it was the other way,” said Susan, 


NEW IMPRESSIONS 


115 


laughing. “You always appear to feel perfectly 
perfect, Eliza/’ 

“Because I’m always making believe,” said Eliza. 
“I’m happy to do it and — I tell you, Susan, dream- 
ing is a lovely discovery. I don’t believe Cammie 
Welche knows how to do it.” 

“You seem to have made a good study of her in a 
short time,” laughed Mr. Champe. These chil- 
dren amused him and lifted him out of himself as 
no others had ever done. When they talked he 
listened intently, rarely interrupting. “What else 
have you found out about her?” 

“She’s not especially clever. She never answers 
questions right when she’s called on,” said Susan. 

“I wish she knew she wasn’t clever,” said Eliza. 
“I hate for her to be so dull and not even to know 
it.” 

“What difference does it make to us — one way or 
the other?” asked Susan, surprised. 

“Oh, none. I’ll take it back about wanting to 
know her. She’s so bound up in her own conceit 
that I am going to leave her alone forever .” 

“You can’t do it,” declared Susan, shaking her 
head knowingly. “Eliza Dudley, I can read you 
like a first reader.” 

“You are so hateful, sometimes I just can’t — 
stand you, Susan!” 

Mr. Champe pulled her to him very close. 


116 


ELIZA 


“Say that over again, Eliza — and see if you can’t 
change it a little,” he told her. 

As he said good-by some minutes later, he told 
Mrs. Dudley that Mr. Welche had asked to call and 
pay his respects and if agreeable he would bring 
him the following evening. 


CHAPTER IX 


HARRY AND ELIZA BECOME FELLOW WORKERS 

S USAN’S predictions soon came true. Al- 
most any day after school Cammie Welche 
could be seen slipping through the fence that 
separated the Welches’ yard from that of the Dud- 
leys, Eliza joining her with a gurgle of delight. 
Cammie’s brother Harry, who was as homely as 
Cammie was pretty, would soon follow and the 
four children — including Susan — had splendid 
times in the yard, or, when the weather was rainy, 
they hastened to the attic where games were played. 
There was a trapeze there and one of Mother’s 
trunks full of ancient clothing. The floor was 
smooth and good for dancing so that it was an ideal 
place. 

Cammie’s beauty held a sort of charm over Eliza. 
“I don’t like her so awful much,” she explained 
to Susan, “but she’s so beautiful I love to have her 
near me.” 

“She gets everything out of you, Eliza,” warned 
Susan, who had that very day seen Eliza working 
all Cammie’s arithmetic examples and neglecting 
her own lessons. 


117 


118 


ELIZA 


“I get my pleasure out of it,” said Eliza. “After 
awhile she will need me so much and I will love 
that.” 

“I think you are right weak minded,” said Susan 
disgustedly. 

Eliza looked at her a minute before speaking, 
then, “Susan, I like what I like. Cammie is the 
most beautiful girl I ever saw. Even in a pic- 
ture I never saw eyes and teeth so pretty. She is 
dull in her books, but what difference will that make 
when she can travel and learn things that way?” 

“She’s got you hoodooed,” said Susan, very much 
displeased. 

Harry’s homeliness was accentuated by Cam- 
mie’s beauty. He was the boy whom Eliza had 
likened to a rabbit that first day at school and as 
you knew him his resemblance to that animal be- 
came stronger. His lips had a way of standing 
apart, and his teeth were large and well separated. 
His complexion was pink and white, his eyes a 
golden brown and inexpressive. Although a year 
younger than Cammie, he made much the best aver- 
age in the same grade. From the first he had ex- 
hibited a dog-like fondness for Susan and Eliza, 
and had shown his love by slipping pears into their 
desks on the sly. Eliza had taken hers and pre- 
sented it to Miss Lillian right before him, but 
Susan, afraid of giving offence, had slipped hers 


THE FELLOW WORKERS 


119 


into her satchel and thanked him for it after school. 
Afterward, he continued his attentions in differ- 
ent ways, gradually showing a preference for Eliza, 
who did not encourage him. It was only when he 
began doing stunts daily on his pony to attract her 
that she noticed him and finally permitted him to 
teach her the tricks. One day she said: “Harry, 
how old do boys have to be before they get a 
mustache ?” 

“I don’t know. Why?” asked Harry, swinging 
from a high limb, his eyes fastened on her ador- 
ingly. 

“Oh, I think it would be becoming to your face, 
that’s all,” she replied. 

“All right,” he said, “I’ll get father’s razor and 
shave to-night.” 

“You’d better wait,” said Eliza. “Now that 
we’ve found a way, I’m satisfied. I’ve been study- 
ing about how you could fix your mouth for a long 
time. I am fond of mustaches if — if they are 
parted a little bit like Mr. Champe’s — and have the 
feel of his when you kiss.” 

“I’ll shave my face to-night,” said Harry de- 
cisively. 

“Very well,” said Eliza as though dismissing the 
subject, “but I’m not sure but what you’ll look even 
curiouser with a mustache. It might make you 
seem like a midget to have one before you’re 
grown.” 


120 


ELIZA 


“Then I’ll wait,” said Harry resignedly. “You 
are so changeable, Eliza, nobody knows how to take 
you.” 

“They don’t have to,” answered Eliza, smiling 
sweetly. “I must say I think it’s very kind in me 
trying to fix you up when you don’t even thank 
me.” 

“You bet I do,” said Harry, jumping down and 
standing by her. “I’d prove it if I knew how.” 

“There is one thing I’d like to know about,” said 
Eliza, “and I don’t like to ask Cammie. Where 
did she get that scar high up on her forehead under 
her hair?” 

“It happened when she was little. Her nurse let 
her fall and cut herself on the round of a high 
chair,” said Harry. 

“Was that the way of it! Why I had imagined 
it happened when she was out West that time and 
some Indians started to scalp her and cut a little 
bit then stopped because she was so pretty. Fall- 
ing out of a chair is so commonplace.” 

“Eliza,” said Harry suddenly. “I’ll tell you 
what I’ve decided on. I want to make you my 
assistant editor in our club. You’ll be it, won’t 
you?” 

“I’d love it. When does it meet?” 

“Every Thursday at different houses. I’ll put 
yours and Susan’s names down as members. Will 
you go with me next time?” 


THE FELLOW WORKERS 


121 


“Yes, Susan and I will be glad to.” 

“Somebody else will have to take Susan — I’ll see 
to it. One boy takes each girl.” 

“Is it always the same boy?” asked Eliza 
anxiously. She did not relish the idea of Harry’s 
company every time. 

“Why, er — no. But I could take you every 
time, and as we’re editors together maybe it would 
be best.” 

“No, indeed,” said Eliza, “I prefer a change.” 

“All right,” said Harry cheerfully. “Only don’t 
go back on the editorship.” 

“I w r on’t. Let’s look over the paper now. We 
can sit on your front steps.” 

Cammie and Susan came up late and found them 
bent over a tablet, laughing and making a joke out 
of the work. 

“We’re writing our paper for the club,” ex- 
plained Eliza. “Harry is going to typewrite it 
down in his father’s office to-morrow. It’s grand. 
Listen to this: ‘Owing to the large membership 
of the club and to the work piled on the Editor, it 
has been considered necessary to appoint Miss Eliza 
Dudley, assistant editor.’ I can do it, too. That’s 
why I feel so proud knowing what’s in me. Oh, 
I’m brimming over with ideas already. Harry, 
couldn’t we have a little story every week? Just 
a short one that wouldn’t take up too much time?” 


122 


ELIZA 


“Why — er — yes, I reckon so. We never have 
had a story, but I think it’s a good suggestion,” said 
the Editor-in-chief, who would have agreed to any- 
thing Eliza might suggest. 

“I hope it will make it more interesting,” said 
Cammie. “We always fidget when Harry’s paper 
is read.” 

Harry colored but said nothing; Cammie’s re- 
mark was so unkind. 

“What else does the club do?” asked Susan, 
anxious to relieve Harry. 

“Well,” said Harry, “when the notes and minutes 
are read and after the paper is read, we all play 
games and then have refreshments. It’s stacks of 
fun. They meet with us Thursday night, so be 
sure to come.” 

“What about our lessons?” asked Susan. 

“That’s so,” said Eliza. “I don’t believe we can 
join if it’s on Thursday night. Why can’t it be 
on Friday, Harry?” 

“It can,” Harry replied promptly. “I’ll have it 
changed to that day.” 

“You talk like you are some pumpkins in the 
club,” said Cammie, shrugging her pretty shoulders. 
“You know, Harry, changing the day will have to 
be voted on at the next meeting. Some of them 
may object to Fridays — you know Clara’s dancing 
class meets then.” 


THE FELLOW WORKERS 


123 


‘Til get Mrs. Mathews to say it isn’t convenient 
to meet at our house this week except on Friday,” 
said Harry, “for I am determined Eliza and Susan 
shall come when it meets with us.” 

“Well — you’ll have to attend to it and see that 
everybody is told,” said Cammie. 

“There comes Miss Caldwell to give you your 
music lesson, Eliza,” announced Susan, “and I bet 
you hav’n’t practiced.” 

“I have — some,” said Eliza, rising reluctantly. 
“Harry, we’ll finish to-morrow. I’ll write some 
during recess.” 

When Eliza entered the parlor she had kept 
Miss Caldwell waiting five minutes by the clock. 
Miss Caldwell believed in punctuality, but her 
nerves would have settled back and behaved them- 
selves if Eliza had known her lesson, which she did 
not. With many mistakes she floundered through 
her two pieces, patiently playing over the required 
bars without a murmur. Eliza really thought she 
was doing fairly well when, while the scales were in 
progress, Miss Caldwell lost patience and rapped 
her over the fingers twice where they lay on the 
piano keyboard. As no one had ever struck her be- 
fore, the sensation was interesting. Eliza looked 
up, smiling sweetly although her face flushed. 

“You’ve lost your self-control,” she said, rising 
and moving toward the door. 


124 


ELIZA 


“Come back!” commanded Miss Caldwell, but 
Eliza vanished into the hall where she ran against 
Susan. 

“What on earth!” exclaimed Susan. 

“Ask her” said Eliza, shaking her head mock- 
ingly as Miss Caldwell’s calls grew louder. 
“Where is everybody?” 

“Mother and Aunt Jane are in the library.” 

Eliza flew into that room, her eyes sparkling and 
her face very rosy. 

“Oh, Mother, Miss Caldwell is too funny! 
When she rapped me over the fingers her eyes 
flashed like sparks of fire. It was a peculiar ad- 
venture for me — I wouldn’t have missed it for any- 
thing.” 

“What in the world, Clarise?” asked Aunt Jane, 
“and what is that dreadful commotion in the par- 
lor? She must be a very ill mannered person, I 
must say, to create such a disturbance. Not at all 
the proper person, I should say — you must make a 
change. Our little dears must have people of cul- 
ture around them.” 

Mrs. Dudley had gone into the parlor while the 
aunt was speaking. Eliza looked at her aunt with 
startled eyes. 

“Miss Caldwell is lovely, Aunt Jane,” said Eliza. 
“Nobody is complaining of her. I didn’t mean it 
in that light.” 


THE FELLOW WORKERS 


125 


Susan, who had followed Eliza, remarked: 
“Miss Caldwell is nice, only I am afraid she is very 
poor. Cammie told me this evening that she had 
to support several brothers and sisters with her 
teaching.” 

Eliza looked startled again. Her mother had 
been gone into the parlor some time and she won- 
dered why she did not return. She felt the need of 
her now very much. 

“Well,” said Aunt Jane meaningly, “she won’t 
keep her class I dare say if — these exhibitions oc- 
cur often.” 

Eliza softly left the room. 

Mrs. Dudley had gone to Miss Caldwell at once. 
If Miss Caldwell was angry, she did not remain so 
long. No one could with this dear little mother 
explaining and softening everything. “Eliza is so 
conscientious, she will come to you of her own ac- 
cord later — when she sees herself in the wrong,” 
Mrs. Dudley said. “She has always hated her prac- 
ticing, but in the country she did not have a good 
teacher like you, and I had hoped so much now. 
She really has a wonderful voice which will need 
cultivation later. They have not been brought up 
as most children because of a great sorrow that came 
to me when they were babies — I have never scolded 
or punished them, which makes them different — 


126 


ELIZA 


and, while I am not unconscious of their faults, 
you yourself will see what I mean about Eliza. 
Unless I am very much mistaken, she will come to 
you of her own accord — ” 

The parlor door burst open and Eliza ran in. 
She held her head up and her eyes looked fearlessly 
into those of her teacher. 

“It was those old scales and fingering, Miss Cald- 
well,” she spoke rapidly — “I hate to have to put 
my forefinger and third finger just where it says to 
— it’s very troublesome having to watch your 
fingers — it’s a perfect nuisance.” 

No one said a word, Eliza crossed to her mother’s 
side and leaned confidingly against her. 

“Miss Caldwell, is it — I always thought you 
taught mostly for pleasure — enjoyed it you know. 
Do you — teach for the money that’s in it?” 

“I’m afraid we all do that,” said Miss Caldwell, 
a smile coming into her eyes. Mrs. Dudley pressed 
Eliza’s hand, but remained silent. 

“It must be a very hard way to earn money,” said 
Eliza thoughtfully — “ ’specially when you have — 
have balky pupils.” 

“It is, dear, very.” Miss Caldwell’s voice was 
uncertain. 

“I never saw this light turned on it before,” said 
Eliza. “I’m determined, though, that it won’t be 


THE FELLOW WORKERS 


127 


such hard work for you any more. Miss Caldwell, as 
far — as I go." 

It was then her mother stooped and folded her 
in her arms. 


CHAPTER X 


W 


FERMENTATIONS 

P HAT impressed you the most, 
Eliza, when we first came?” 

‘The crunching of gravel on the 
streets — and the hills we went up and down — up 
and down before we reached this house.” 

“It didn’t me. It was all these houses so close 
— and the milk man’s bell every morning — and peo- 
ple going, going, coming, coming, and we watching 
them all and thinking — ” 

“Yes — ” Eliza interrupted — “thinking what? 
Wondering what they were thinking and where they 
were going — and if they really knew themselves. 
It reminds me of those ants we used to watch carry- 
ing crumbs of bread — hastening on, each one no 
doubt knowing where its house was and what was 
in that house — and — God manages it all.” 

“And knows the number of every ant,” put in 
Susan breathlessly. 

“I’m interested in all this,” said Eliza, waving her 
hand to include the universe. “I would like to 

know the outs and ins of everybody I see.” 

128 


FERMENTATIONS 


129 


And they did become acquainted with the “outs 
and ins” of a great many that winter, for Mrs. 
Dudley found the sick at her very doors here — and 
the children often hearing of unfortunate cases, ap- 
pealed to her — and never in vain. 

There was one child in school who interested 
Eliza — not as Cammie Welche interested her, for 
this child was by no means beautiful. In fact, her 
face reminded one of a silent dun-colored calf. 
Her eyes were brown and mutely raised to Eliza 
during recess when all the other children left this 
girl standing alone against the outside wall of the 
school building. Eliza looked at her hesitatingly at 
first because she didn’t know how to approach her 
without giving offence. She was the poorest clad 
girl in school — her calico skirts clung to her as if 
the undergarments were too scant for warmth. 
One other thing was soon apparent, this girl — Mag- 
gie Romer — rarely came to school on Monday. An 
instant conjecture led Eliza to say, “It’s to help her 
mother wash— of course. Monday is wash day, I 
suppose.” 

Maggie’s hands were red, and when Eliza touched 
them — after becoming acquainted — they felt rough 
like a grater. Maggie also wore strings for garters 
and the ribbon tied at the end of her one plait was 
worn almost to shreds. 

Eliza’s imagination was on a rampage. She 


130 


ELIZA 


made Mat cook her a splendid basket one day and 
when recess came invited Maggie to join her at 
lunch. 

Susan, who had not seen the inner workings of 
Eliza about Maggie, remonstrated in low voice: 
“You act so curious, Eliza, none of us know her.” 

“I like to do it — you don’t understand, Susan,” 
whispered Eliza, nodding her curls at Maggie and 
smiling her to come on. 

Susan followed a little ashamed for all the girls 
were watching, but loyalty to Eliza made her stick. 
They found a quiet nook in the corner of the yard 
where the lemon tarts and chicken were shared gen- 
erously. 

“You must have another tart, Maggie,” said 
Eliza — “Why, how did you hurt your hand?” 

Maggie drew down her sleeve and looked at the 
ground. “It happened — ” she began, but Eliza 
hushed her with, “Never mind, dear — nobody lias 
to tell. “Hush,” as Maggie began to speak — : “I 
understand, Maggie. You must come to see us 
some time soon.” 

The class in geography was in progress. 
Around the school room could be heard the usual 
subdued shuffling and shifting in seats. Miss Lil- 
lian stood in front of the room, her book held open. 

“What is a zone, Eliza?” 


FERMENTATIONS 


131 


Eliza seemed to be sitting there in her own seat, 
but in truth she was in her bedroom at home and 
Maggie was sitting in Eliza’s white rocking chair 
and Eliza was standing beside the chair holding a 
toasted marshmallow to Maggie’s lips saying, “one- 
two-three — go ahead, Maggie, open your mouth.” 

Twice within the last week Eliza had hastened 
into the schoolroom her curls flying and her cheeks 
pink from running. Twice the tardy bell was on 
the point of being rung when she had taken her seat 
near the scandalized Susan who knew the reason of 
it all. Eliza had stopped on the way to look at a 
huge poster ! It was a big flaming red and yellow 
thing, representing a drunken man beating his child 
while a frail woman in the background pled with 
him to stop. Susan could not pull Eliza away, and 
so she deserted her. Eliza had never imagined any- 
thing like that, so no wonder her heart thumped and 
her brain worked amazingly. It was the most 
natural thing that she began to think of Maggie’s 
scar — the hurt on her arm — and to wonder. 

Her imagination about Maggie would have filled 
a book. She determined to do something very 
grand for her— she would take her home and give 
her things she had never had — yes — she would give 
her gold bracelet to her! One morning when they 
were rather early for school, Eliza had dragged the 
unwilling Susan past Maggie’s house— a little 


132 


ELIZA 


brown house that looked like Maggie — and had 
lingered on the sidewalk as long as Susan would, 
in hopes that Maggie might appear. Eliza finally 
concluded that she must be in the kitchen helping 
her mother cook. “But there are not so very many 
clothes lines, Susan. I wish I knew where they 
hung them all, for I am sure that her mother has 
to wash for a living, because her father is a drunk- 
ard and — ” 

“How do you know all that?” asked Susan, as- 
tonished. 

“Oh, I just know. Let’s go back by that pic- 
ture, Susan, and see exactly how they do when they 
are drunk.” 

But Susan refused point blank. “Eliza Dudley, 
I hav’n’t any patience with you, at all,” she said. 

“You are certainly unaccommodating for a 
twin,” sighed Eliza, “but it doesn’t matter — I can 
go alone.” 

Thus had her mind been fermenting for a week, 
so, no wonder Miss Lillian had to repeat her ques- 
tion. 

“Eliza, what is a zone?” 

Eliza (to herself) : “Maggie, didn’t you ever 
taste a marshmallow before? Why, Maggie — ” 

“E-li-za!” 

“Ma’am?” Eliza awoke to surroundings. Susan 
hid her face as Eliza rose, smiling sweetly. 


FERMENTATIONS 


133 


“Did you hear the question I asked?” Miss Lil- 
lian looked severe. 

“It seems to me it was about marshmallows — 
where they — grew — or something” (sweetly). 

“Sit on the front bench!” 

Now, it was bad enough for boys to have to oc- 
cupy the front bench, but a terrible disgrace for 
girls. 

Eliza rose. The clanging of dismissal bell at that 
moment gave everybody something to do besides 
watch her, which was a blessed thing thought Susan, 
as she mournfully gathered her books together and 
those of her twin. This was the worst thing that 
had ever befallen Eliza. Susan hated to tell them 
at home, and it was very hard for Susan to make up 
an excuse until Eliza could come with her own ex- 
cuses. She had unbounded faith in Eliza’s power 
to get off easy with Miss Lillian, but lacking im- 
agination, Susan must have facts. “What can I 
say at home?” she whispered, passing Eliza on her 
way out. “Say that Miss Lillian wanted to see 
me about something very important,” answered 
Eliza, smiling. Susan wondered why she couldn’t 
have thought of this, and went out wondering. 

Miss Lillian came and stood by Eliza after the 
children had all gone. Eliza looked up and found 
Miss Lillian’s face much softer than it had been a 
few minutes previously. 


134 


ELIZA 


“Then you were stern — for — for effect?” said 
Eliza. 

“Yes — partly. I understood of course that 
something weighty was at work in your head — 
when it shouldn’t have been, but the children 
couldn’t understand — and so — ” 

“I see,” Eliza smiled her sweetest. “I’m sorry 
I can’t tell you all about it, Miss Lillian.” 

“Why not?” Miss Lillian sat down by Eliza 
and looked persuasive. Eliza shook her head 
thoughtfully. 

“I don’t suppose it would really hurt to tell — it 
isn’t like Maggie had told me herself. I have just 
found it all out.” 

“Maggie Romer?” asked Miss Lillian. 

Eliza nodded. 

“What about her?” 

“I’ve worried about her — that’s all. She has 
such a time of it — washing on Mondays and her 
father’s drinking as he does and abusing her.” 

“What!” 

“It must be awful to have a drunkard for a 
father, Miss Lillian — you must see it. I’m very 
much concerned about Maggie.” 

“I knew she was very poor,” said Miss Lillian. 
“But all this is news. How did you find it out, 
Eliza?” 

Then Eliza told everything and last of all about 


FERMENTATIONS 


135 


the hurt on Maggie’s arm. As she proceeded, Miss 
Lillian began to smile and after Eliza finished, she 
took her hand. 

“You funny child,” she exclaimed. “I can clear 
up some of the mystery that has been worrying you. 
I don’t think her father drinks at all — I have never 
heard of it, anyway. And that scar was caused 
by some hot coffee scalding her — she would have 
told you if you had let her.” 

“The drinking is the worsest thing,” said Eliza, 
not at all abashed; “are you sure he don’t do it, 
Miss Lillian?” 

“Pretty sure.” 

“Then I guess I’ll be going. You don’t want 
me any longer?” 

“No, Sweetheart.” 

Eliza flushed with pleasure. Miss Lillian had 
called her “Sweetheart.” It was like pouring oil 
on every wound. Susan should be told, and then 
she would think it not a bad idea to stay in. Oh, 
she was glad! 

“You yourself say she is very poor. Is there 
any way to help about that? She wouldn’t mind 
my taking her things, for she likes me, Miss Lil- 
lian,” said Eliza. 

“I don’t wonder. I’ve noticed how sweet you are 
to her.” 

“As for that — ” Eliza grandly waved her hand 


136 


ELIZA 


— “who wouldn’t be! She’s a very good girl. I 
want her very much for my friend.” 

“If you feel so — nothing you give her will be 
misconstrued,” said Miss Lillian. 

Eliza wasted very little time making her mother 
acquainted with her wishes and Maggie’s whole 
family — the father out of work; the mother not 
strong; a little brother — all these were befriended. 

Mrs. Dudley was a good angel in many homes, 
and her influence was felt by some who watched 
from afar. Mr. Welche was one of these. He was 
a narrow man — cold, unresponsive. He had never 
done a service for any one that had not a selfish 
motive behind it. His own children did not know 
him, and he did not cultivate their acquaintance. 
If he felt a fondness for any human it was for his 
boy Harry, but the bond between them was not a 
strong one. Harry was too homely for his father, 
who never looked inside, to take any especial pride 
in him. For the girl, he did not care at all. She 
was too much like himself — cold, unlovable, unre- 
sponsive. Her beauty did not appeal to him be- 
cause it was of the brunette type which he never 
admired. He had noticed the growing attachment 
between her and Eliza and was rather pleased than 
otherwise. The Dudley family amused him. He 
often watched their windows from his dining-room 


FERMENTATIONS 


137 


when he took his breakfast alone, waited on only 
by his housekeeper. He could not complain of the 
big unseeing eyes of windows now, for everything 
about the place was light . He had called several 
times. The worldy aunt — rather gushing but no 
doubt well meaning; the widow, very young in her 
black, with unusual eyes; the two girls who hung 
back from him and refused to be very friendly; all 
attracted him in an unaccountable way. “Champe 
seems to like it there too — confound him,” he would 
say to himself, and then wonder why he had said it. 

To tell the truth, Mr. Champe was himself a 
little troubled about going so often, but it seemed 
the most natural thing in the world to do once he 
had got started. Almost weekly the children came 
to his office with an invitation to dine, and he ac- 
cepted because he wanted to. It was the best bit of 
home life he had enjoyed for many years and they 
always treated him the way he loved to be treated : 
the children welcoming him with open arms, the 
aunt with unmistakable kindliness, the mother — 
whose eyes were as no other eyes in the whole world 
—believed in him. Eliza always called him “dear” 
now and made him her great confidant. One day 
she began speaking of Mr. Welche: “I don’t 
fancy him, dear — I must try, of course, but it will 
be a hard job because I am not drawn to him.” 
She talked exactly like a grown woman. 


138 


ELIZA 


“Why ar’n’t you drawn to him?” asked Mr. 
Champe. “He’s a nice fellow.” 

“I know. Aunt Jane likes his kind, but I don’t. 
You see, he’s like Cammie exactly . He’s nice 
enough on the outside, but it’s the inside that’s lack- 
ing. I could never feel close to him — never. If it 
wasn’t too much trouble I might even hate — ” 

“You mustn’t hate anybody. That’s not the 
way.” 

“Yes — I know — and I don’t want to, but with 
him and Aunt Jane it’s an uphill business.” 

“Your aunt is a very lovely woman.” 

“Exactly,” said Eliza. “She’s so stylish she’s 
overstocked with it.” 

“Eliza, you know what the Bible says about pick- 
ing the beams out of your own eye?” 

“Yes — and I do it whenever I can find one. 
What I tell you , dear, about anybody isn’t like I 
was finding fault. I tell you things the same as 
myself.” 

“And I appreciate your confidence, Eliza — I 
hold it the most sacred thing in the world.” 

To be thus talking to her was strange when the 
gulf ’twixt youth and age is considered, but Eliza 
was not like other children. Miss Jane had found 
her even more unapproachable than Susan. “She 
looks right through you,” she said in a rather com- 
plaining voice to her niece. “I think she is a very 


FERMENTATIONS 


139 


peculiar child, Clarise. If I did anything wrong 
she would be sure to know it. Y ou were never so, 
nor was Louise.” 

“I understand her,” said Mrs. Dudley, smiling. 
“And I think she understands me.” 

“I wish they would love me, Clarise. I came 
prepared to find them — not half what they are, for 
you never made me understand what beautiful chil- 
dren they were; but, there’s something I yearn for 
and can’t get.” 

Mrs. Dudley understood and had it in her heart 
to pity her aunt as never before. “I love you,” she 
said softly. 

“That’s because you are so good. With all my 
friends and luxuries, I know myself to be a very 
lonely woman, Clarise.” 

“I am so sorry,” said Mrs. Dudley. “But, what 
you give will be given you hack. Auntie. Maybe 
you do not give of your real heart.” 

“Oh, I’m happy enough — only at times,” said the 
aunt, regretting that she had unburdened herself 
thus — a thing she rarely did. “I have a very op- 
timistic disposition — I’m like a ball. I go way 
down, then bounce up again.” 

And the ball was always high up before visitors. 
When Mr. Welche was present it was quite aloft, 
and of all the household she was perhaps the young- 
est. Full of life and mirth, she quite threw her 


140 


ELIZA 


nieces into the background. Mr. Welche liked her 
and told her one evening she reminded him of a 
very dear friend he had once known. “She was 
exactly like you — no one could have the blues when 
she was about. Why, I don’t believe you ever had 
a sad moment.” He was seated — quite swallowed 
— in a big Morris chair, and Miss Jane sat near, 
crocheting some Irish lace. She lost none of his 
words, though, and paused in her work, gaily pat- 
ting it before replying. 

“You dear man! As if anybody could always 
be gay. It is only that I keep this side for the 
world and the other for my private use.” 

“When those bad headaches come on — you know, 
like the one you had yesterday,” said Susan inno- 
cently. “Why, it’s then — the other side?” 

“Yes — yes,” said her aunt. “Mr. Welche, hold 
out your hands a moment. I want to wind this 
into a ball.” 

It was a very homelike scene, Mr. Champe 
thought, as he entered a few moments later. His 
broad-smiling presence pervaded the entire room. 
Both children flew to meet him and were rewarded 
by a box of candy — his usual accompaniment. 
Miss Jane threw aside her lace work and came for- 
ward, while Mrs. Dudley, toward whom he had 
barely glanced and that just to make sure of her 
presence, held her hand out last and he almost for- 
got to take it for looking into her eyes. 


FERMENTATIONS 


141 


“Well, Welche, there is nobody in the world who 
comes oftener than you, except myself,” he said, 
taking both children on his lap and holding them 
there in spite of their mother’s remonstrance. 

“You don’t come near as often as we beg you to,” 
said Eliza. “We begged you to come last night for 
dinner, and you wouldn’t.” 

“I asked you how much my board bill would be, 
if you remember,” he said, laughing. He got up 
and stood a minute, his broad back to the blazing 
fire. “This is the most homelike spot in the whole 
world. I shall be sorry when summer comes and 
ends it — actually sorry.” 

Aunt Jane bit a thread and looked up. 

“The worst of it is, Clarise feels that she must go 
even before summer. There is so much to attend 
to on a farm — gardens, preserving — everything 
comes early. I tell Clarise that I can manage very 
well the month of June without her.” 

Eliza and Susan looked their consternation. 
Mrs. Dudley noticed it and said, “Yes, Mrs. Spen- 
cer writes that Peter is sick — measles, they think. 
I feel that spring will put too much on her and it is 
so kind of Aunt Jane to be willing to take the re- 
sponsibility of things here until the children’s school 
closes.” 

Aunt Jane drew her lips together as if to say, 
“Yes, it is asking a great deal of me,” while in 


142 


ELIZA 


reality she rather enjoyed the thoughts of having 
the field to herself awhile. 

“Don’t worry until the time comes,” said Mr. 
Champe, who also had noticed the children’s dis- 
tressed expressions. “Peter’s measles will be en- 
tirely over by then, and Mrs. Spencer may grow so 
strong that your mother won’t be needed a bit, and 
can continue her good work in the city.” 

“Yes,” said Aunt Jane, “it’s ridiculous how 
Clarise always finds things to do and wears herself 
completely out for these poorer classes who haven’t 
it in them to appreciate it. I’m very sure I 
wouldn’t do it,” — smoothing her lace and patting it 
some. 

During the silence that followed Eliza was won- 
dering and remembering the tears in Maggie’s eyes 
and in the eyes of them all when that last basket 
of home stuff had been carried there. Wasn’t it 
appreciated? Mrs. Dudley rose and walked to the 
far end of the room to close a transom. When she 
came back there was a determined expression on 
her sweet lips and a fearless look in her beautiful 
eyes. 

“Aunt Jane,” she asked, “do you really mean 
that?” 

“Indeed I do! You’ll give everything away if 
you keep on,” said the aunt decisively. 

“Somebody said,” — Mrs. Dudley’s voice was 



“THE IDEA," CRIED BOTH GIRLS AT ONCE, CHOKING THEIR 
MOTHER IN EMBRACES, “SHE DOES NOT — SHE DOES NOT!" 



















FERMENTATIONS 


143 


very low and very sweet as if arguing with a child — 
“somebody said that all we ever save is what we 
give away, and for ten years it has made me happy 
here” — touching her breast — “to do it. Why 
shouldn’t I be happy. Aunt Jane?” 

“Ah, well,” — Aunt Jane had not bargained for 
this — “I suppose if wearing yourself out and taking 
from your children — ” 

“The idea!” cried both girls at once, choking their 
mother in embraces. “She does not — she does 
not r 

Mr. Welche had listened with an amused smile. 
He really agreed with Aunt Jane in her ideas, but 
it amused him to see Mrs. Dudley put on her de- 
fense. He couldn’t understand her charities, but 
was rather pleased on the whole that she was like 
she was. Being a selfish man, unselfishness in 
others surprised and appealed to him. 

Mr. Champe also had listened, but no one could 
see his face, which was shielded with one hand from 
the light. Neither could any one tell what he 
thought. When the children flew to their mother’s 
side, he arose and walked to the fireplace, struck a 
match and lighted a cigar, handing another one to 
Mr. Welche; then he went into a corner of the 
room and drew out a table. 

“Let’s all play five hundred,” he said quietly. 
“There’s nothing that rests me so when I am tired.” 


CHAPTER XI 


THE COUNTRY COUSINS COME A-VISITING 

O NE day in April when the buds and bloom- 
ing honeysuckle called the children out, a 
speckled thrush (almost tame) lit right at 
their feet, searching for material for a nest. 

“Isn’t it too sweet to ever want to die?” asked 
Eliza, caressing the rich yellow jonquils that bor- 
dered the grape-arbor. “I would like to run away 
and go to the country right now. I know the big 
haw tree is in its glory and think of the violets we 
are missing! I it’s play something grand this 
morning — granc jr than anything yet.” 

“What shall it be?” asked Susan, Cammie, and 
Harry, all at once. 

“Well, I know lots of things we could do, but we 
must see first what material we can rake up. Let’s 
go to the attic and ransack that old trunk of 
Mother’s.” 

“I won’t wear another train,” said Susan em- 
phatically. “I ’most broke my neck in that last 
one when I stumbled on it.” 

“I will wear the train,” said Eliza “And, 
Harry, you can walk along by Susan’s side. Cam- 
mie can be stage lady.” 


144 


COUNTRY COUSINS COME A-VISITING 145 


“You’ll ruin Mother’s yellow satin,” said Susan. 

“I shall wear the red-brocaded skirt and those 
amber beads. I shan’t walk. I shall ride my 
charger,” said Eliza so grandly that the others were 
properly impressed. 

They were soon in the attic and had just turned 
the contents of an old hair trunk out upon the floor 
when the front door-bell rang and steps were heard 
racing up the stair. Then the attic steps were 
climbed by eager feet — two steps at a time. 

“Well, if it isn’t William,” drawled Eliza in 
Cammie’s best style; “and Stella! Come right in. 
We are fixing to play ‘Princess.’ ” 

“Oh, Stella,” said Susan, holding her tight and 
loving her with her eyes. 

“We can stay until Monday,” said William, fid- 
geting. “Mr. Johns brought us in his spring 
wagon. Where’s Aunt Clarise?” 

“Mother’s lying down. She’ll be here pres- 
ently. What’s the news?” asked Eliza. 

“Nothing ’cept Aunt Lucy nearly got burned up. 
Digly put her out. She laughed all the time like 
it was something funny going on.” 

“Aunt Lucy never was very bright,” explained 
Susan, turning toward Harry and Cammie. 

“She’s a mighty good goose-picker,” said Eliza. 
“It would not seem right if we didn’t find her there 
when we go. She hasn’t got much sense, though. 


146 


ELIZA 


You remember that time, Susan, when Mother 
asked her if she had counted the geese and she said 
she had counted all but two and she couldn’t catch 
those to count them?” 

“And the time William fell in the feather bar- 
rel?” asked Susan, laughing. 

“We brought you some things,” said Stella. 
“There’s a salt-rising loaf for Eliza and a pound 
of butter for you, Susan. We must get it out of 
our satchels before it softens.” 

“That was sweet of Aunt Mollie,” said Eliza, 
melting to Stella’s charms as of old. She remem- 
bered the fine bread her aunt used to make and also 
the good old times. “Cammie, you and Harry can 
have a taste. Aunt Mollie is grand at bread-mak- 
ing.” 

“Let’s get out of doors,” said William. “I want 
to see something. Eliza, Mother gave me fifty 
cents to spend.” 

“I forgot to introduce you to Cammie and Harry 
Welche,” said Susan, noticing how awkwardly 
those two were standing aloof. “They’re ’special 
friends of ours.” 

Cammie gave a graceful bow, thereby making a 
very favorable impression on William. Harry 
only stared, his hands rammed deep into his pockets. 

“How do you like your new home, Eliza?” asked 
William. This was the first time they had seen 
each other since the move to town. 


COUNTRY COUSINS COME A-VISITING 147 


“Well, I love cities ” said Eliza, letting her voice 
linger on the word cities. “They are so full of hap- 
penings.” 

“Who’s your teacher?” 

“Miss Lillian. She’s all of our teachers. We 
are all in the same grade. I love Miss Lillian — 
she looks — er — interesting. Her hands are white 
as a lily’s.” 

“We go to Cedar Grove school this session. 
Tom Burge drew his knife on the teacher and was 
expelled. The teacher is a man and he makes us 
walk the chalk. I have got five whippings so far 
and—” 

“Let’s go play,” said Eliza abruptly, feeling a 
little ashamed for her friends to hear William’s com 
fessions. “We were just fixing to play when you- 
all came. I’m the princess — I’m to wear a long 
dress out of that trunk. Stella, you can be my 
lady-in-waiting and Harry my knight. Susan, you 
are the scullery maid and William can be the village 
smith. Cammie, you can run ahead to the honey- 
suckle-spread now and wait till we arrive. We 
will want you to act. We’ll pretend we are going 
to a London show. Harry, you be catching the 
pony, for I’ll want to ride.” 

Soon they had all climbed through into the 
Welches’ yard where Harry had the pony waiting. 
Eliza mounted at once. Harry and William stared 


148 


ELIZA 


at each other — they had not yet spoken. Eliza saw 
they would never be very friendly. 

“Harry,” she said, “you take the reins and lead 
the pony. Stella, you can either walk by my side 
or mount behind me. William, you fall back with 
Susan and follow us at a distance. Cammie, why 
on earth don’t you hurry? You must he there long 
before we are.” 

Cammie ran ahead, her brown flowing curls 
caught with a crimson bow on the side were blown 
by the wind. William whistled his appreciation 
and lit off at a rapid pace in her wake. 

“Come hack!” shouted Eliza. “Knight, over- 
take the varlet and force him to return.” 

Harry needed no second bidding. He overtook 
William and they were locked in each other’s arms. 
A fight followed. It was over in a minute but 
frightened Susan terribly, while Eliza watched it, 
smiling sweetly. Soon both boys rose from the 
ground looking very bedraggled. “Your new suit 
is ruined, William, and it is such a pity,” said Eliza 
consolingly. 

“You sicked him on me,” said William, grinning 
openly at Harry, while Harry looked at him with 
greater respect than hitherto shown. 

“Will you play fair or not?” asked Harry, mak- 
ing a motion as though to renew the fight. 

“Oh, I don’t mind humoring Eliza in her tom- 


COUNTRY COUSINS COME A-VISITING 149 


foolery. I’ve got even with her too many times 
in my life to be afraid I can’t this time.” 

“Fall back in the rear!” shouted Eliza indig- 
nantly. “Now then, William, you and Susan pre- 
tend to talk secrets of your own behind my back. 
Now, we’ll proceed. Sir Galahad” (to Harry), 
“where is thy sword?” 

“Here,” cried Harry, picking up a large stick 
and brandishing it. “Princess, show me the 
dragon that molests thee.” 

“In yonder lagoon methinks I see one. Look, 
see the angry fire flashing from its eyes. Avaunt ! 
— show thy valor and my hand is thine!” 

Harry pranced off in the direction of the foun- 
tain, brandishing his stick. An innocent gander 
flapping his wings and squawking for dear life made 
a break through the grass and disappeared. Harry 
returned, wiping imaginary blood from his sword. 

“Smithy,” cried Eliza, “my horse has lost a shoe. 
Avaunt ! kiss not my scullery maid unbeknownst — 
slave!” 

William, thus addressed, turned a somersault in 
the air, sprang up, turned another, then knelt and 
lifted the pony’s fore foot, looking at it critically. 
He got up, laughing, turned a handspring twice 
and said: “Ladies, I don’t like this dawdling. I 
am going to reach London first,” and he was off 
toward the honeysuckle-spread at the extreme end 


150 


ELIZA 


of the Welches’ big lawn, where Cammie was wait- 
ing. 

“He’s struck on Cammie,” said Eliza disgustedly. 
“William always was mean about playing. Stella, 
don’t you want to ride behind?” 

“No, let Susan.” 

“But she’s my scullery maid,” objected Eliza. 

“Scullery nothing,” said Susan. “Get down, 
selfish; it’s my turn.” 

“Then I’ll be scullery maid myself,” said Eliza, 
resignedly. “I must take off my shoes though — 
all scullery maids go barefooted.” 

“You’ll catch your death of cold,” cried Susan. 
“I’ll scream as loud as I can for Mother.” 

“I can’t help it,” said Eliza. “I have to play my 
part or I can’t be it.” 

“Then, go ahead and be a princess; but you walk 
a while like a poor princess. I think I read about 
one once.” 

“All right,” answered Eliza. “I’ll say as I go 
along, ‘Home they brought her warrior, dead!’ ” 

Followed by the others and reciting as she 
walked, she reached that part of the Welches’ yard 
where the white honeysuckle had spread all over the 
ground. Cammie arose at once. She had decked 
herself with the honeysuckles and looked very 
pretty. Bowing, she asked, “What piece do you 
want, Eliza?” 


COUNTRY COUSINS COME A-VISITING 151 


“Say the 'Princess, 5 ” answered Eliza, promptly. 

Cammie struck an attitude and began: 

“I, a princess, king descended, 2 

Decked with jewels — gilded, dressed. 

Would rather be a peasant with a baby at her breast. 

For all I look so like the sun — am purple like the West! 
Two and two my slaves behind, 

Two and two, before, 

Two and two, on either hand, 

They guard me ever more, 

Me, poor dove that must not weep — 

Eagle, that cannot soar!” 

It was long, so she omitted some of it. Next 
Eliza arose and sang, “Sweet and low, sweet and 
low.” Eliza rarely sang these days. Some one 
had said in her presence that a child’s voice was like 
India rubber and wouldn’t bear too much stretch- 
ing, and she had decided to wait patiently until 
older, so, neither Cammie nor Harry had ever heard 
her sing before. No wonder Harry listened open- 
mouthed to this new prima donna. Eliza felt their 
surprise, but she was far too interested in hearing 
her voice herself, to think of them. Oh, it was 
sweet to send it forth — doing it — able to do it! 
“ 'Wind of the Western sea. Breathe and blow, 
breathe and blow — ’ ” Her body and he^ arms 
swayed with the sweet cadence, and she forgot sur- 
roundings — everything, in her joy, until she be- 
came conscious of another listener. It was Mr. 


152 


ELIZA 


Welche, going down the walk, who had paused to 
listen. “Cammie,” said Eliza, pausing abruptly, 
“there goes your father to his bank. Why don’t 
you kiss him good-by?” 

“Good-by, Dad,” shouted Harry, but, Cammie, 
shrugging, deigned never a word. 

Eliza looked at her, frowning some. “I’ll go say 
good-by to him myself ” she declared, picking up 
her skirts and running across tjie lawn. 

“Good morning,” said Mr. Welche, holding out 
his hand; “I enjoyed your song.” 

“It was nice,” said Eliza. “I came to say 
good-by.” 

“Then you must like me, after all,” he said in a 
glad voice that surprised even himself. 

“I — er — I can’t say I am exactly — crazy about 
you,” answered Eliza, trying to be conscientious, 
“but there are days when — when I can feel a charity 
toward you. This is one of them,” she added, smil- 
ing sweetly. 

“Why?” asked the surprised Mr. Welche. 

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s because of my warmish 
heart, I suppose. And then, your eyes look sort 
of oldish to-day. I seem to like you better when 
your eyes look oldish, Mr. Welche.” 

“You curious child!” 

“I believe I am — that way,” said the imperturb- 
able Eliza. 


COUNTRY COUSINS COME A-VISITING 153 


“Well, good-by, fairy. We won’t quarrel, any- 
way.” 

Eliza shook hands very gravely. 

When she rejoined the others, she found Cam- 
mie, who had not paid the least attention to her 
father, holding her audience spellbound with an- 
other recitation. William lay half recumbent, 
watching her, his freckled face full of honest ad- 
miration. Susan and Stella stood listening, arm 
in arm, while Harry held the pony by its mane 
and watched Eliza’s approach. Eliza pressed her 
flushed face against the pony’s face and stroked 
his tangled mane. Harry shouted, “Get away, 
Cammie ; we want to hear Eliza sing again.” 

“I can’t,” declared Eliza. “I’m worried.” 

“What about?” 

“I don’t know exactly, but I must go off by my- 
self until I’m over my distressfulness.” So say- 
ing, she disappeared, running into her yard as fast 
as she could. 

“What could have happened?” asked Harry. 

“It’s a fine way to treat your company, I must 
say,” Cammie remarked, shrugging her shoulders 
and glancing toward William. 

“Hush up,” said Harry, who felt worse than any 
of them. 

“She always was a crazy thing,” declared Wil- 
liam. “But we can play without her, I suppose.” 


154 


ELIZA 


Yet, though the play progressed, they all felt her 
absence and everything dragged. 

“It’s not a bit of use to beg her to come,” said 
Susan. “We’ll have to just wait until the spirit 
moves her.” 

Although they waited an hour, Eliza did not re- 
appear. When they entered the house, they found 
her practicing on the piano. 

“What on earth — ” began Susan who knew 
Saturday was not practicing day. 

“I hate it like fury,” said Eliza, “but I am trying 
to forget something, and I like to work when I’m 
trying to forget.” 

Stella and William went upstairs to their aunt 
and Susan pressed Eliza for an explanation. She 
replied that she was worried because she believed 
Cammie to be the coldest-hearted daughter in the 
whole world. 

“Yet,” said Susan, “you’ll be eating her up to- 
morrow.” 

“I know it. It is my one weakness, Susan.” 

“You are a perfect goose, Eliza. Do come on 
and play with us. I feel sorry for Stella and Wil- 
liam.” 

“All right. Let’s take them to the historical so- 
ciety and show them the mummy. I want to watch 
William’s expression when he sees it.” 

Once while they were dressing, Eliza paused to 


COUNTRY COUSINS COME A-VISITING 155 


remark, “If Cammie had been a child exactly like 
me, Mr. Welche would have been far happier.” 

“You are so conceited, Eliza,” said Susan. 
“Why don’t you say like Stella or like me?” 

“Because I would have suited him much better,” 
answered Eliza, smiling sweetly. “Susan, I am 
fine . You don’t seem to know how fine I am. 
Sometimes I want to divide myself into little pieces 
and give a piece to everybody in the world — to give 
them joy.” 


CHAPTER XII 


AN EGYPTIAN PRINCESS 

I T was after four o’clock before they got 
started. Harry and Cammie joined them at 
the gate and they paired off. Harry and 
Eliza walked together, Cammie and William, 
Susan and Stella. 

There was so much to see and so many places to 
point out to the two cousins that it took them about 
an hour to reach the historical society rooms when 
it should have taken fifteen minutes. They went a 
block out of their way so as to pass the public school 
building, where they lingered a while. William 
expressed his approval enthusiastically. “Gee! 
Ain’t it big, though? I wish Tom Burch could see 
it. I say, Harry, it must have cost upwards of a 
thousand dollars to build it.” When they reached 
Mr. Champe’s office they all had to run up and tell 
him where they were going. Then, Cammie 
pointed out her father’s bank and, although they 
did not go in, William was seriously “impressed by 
its exterior. 

The sun seemed rather low in the heavens when 
they finally reached the gloomy door that led to the 
156 


AN EGYPTIAN PRINCESS 


157 


historical building. William whistled, trying to 
cheer himself. “I don’t see why Eliza is bringing 
us here,” he said, feeling a sudden shrinkage in his 
previous desire to see the mummy. 

Eliza paused in the doorway, turned her head a 
little on one side, and looked at William reflectively. 
To her, this was the most wonderful place in town 
and she wanted to impress them with its wonders. 

“You know, William,” she said sweetly, “ you 
wouldn’t want to go back without seeing the first 
paper that was ever printed in America, and the 
sword that George Washington used on the British, 
and the dress that Pocahontas wore when she saved 
John Smith’s life, and — ” 

“Let’s go in,” interrupted Stella eagerly, pushing 
ahead. 

In an alcove that led off the hall sat the caretaker, 
Mr. Booker. Eliza had met him before, so she 
walked right up, extending her hand: “How do 
you do, Mr. Booker. I want to show my cousins 
your mummy.” 

“Go right in,” said the old man, barely glancing 
up from his desk. Around him in every space there 
were white marble statues and busts of various re- 
nowned and unrenowned personages. William 
looked scandalized. “They don’t seem hardly 
proper without clothes,” he whispered to Eliza. 
“What are they for anyway?” 


158 


ELIZA 


“Artist’s statues,” said Eliza. “They’re consid- 
ered nice to copy.” 

“Mrs. Granger in the country is an artist and she 
don’t look like those things,” said William uncom- 
prehensively. 

The hall kept growing darker and darker until 
they reached the big chamber where the relics were 
kept. In that room many dark slate-colored col- 
umns reached up to the ceiling. Long glass cases 
full of relics ran parallel with one another and 
across the length of the room. There seemed to be 
about twenty of them. The windows, tall and nar- 
row, were dim from city smoke so that the whole 
room was gloomy and dark. 

Eliza, followed by the others, pushed her way 
at once to the center of the room where the 
mummy’s case stood. There she paused while the 
other five children surrounded the case and peered 
into it. A well-preserved mummy met their gaze. 

“That’s it,” announced Eliza in a stage whisper. 
“It is a woman eighteen years old and she was 
mummified one thousand years before Christ. If 
it wasn’t so dark we could read about her. Wil- 
liam, look at her finger nails!” 

Nobody uttered a word. All looked solemnly 
down upon the body of the Egyptian. Eliza felt 
elated over the impression produced. 

“I once heard of a man,” she continued, “who 


AN EGYPTIAN PRINCESS 


159 


found a mummy in the tombs of Egypt” — she 
paused, dropped her voice as befitted the occasion — 
“this mummy the man found was the mummy of 
an Egyptian Princess . It was so perfect that he 
could even tell the color of her eyebrows. She was 
so beautiful that he fell deep in love with her and 
took her back to England when he went. There in 
his castle he had a room built expressly for her and 
he stood the case with her in it right up in that room, 
and every day he went and gazed on her and loved 
her to distraction. He was a lord and his old 
father the earl had set his heart on his son’s marry- 
ing a certain noble young lady, but the son would 
not hear to it. He wouldn’t even go to see the 
lady, for he was so in love with his beautiful 
mummy. 

“One night after he had come from the room 
where the Egyptian Princess mummy stood, he fell 
asleep on the couch with his clothes on and had a 
dream. He thought the mummy stepped down out 
of its case and kissed him, then began dancing the 
most graceful dance, throwing her draperies over 
her head and bowing. She was so fascinating that 
he reached out his arms, which awoke him. His 
father was standing over him and right behind his 
father stood the lady he had seen in his dreams 
(only not dressed the same). He sprang up and 
fell at her feet in a swoon. When he came to him- 


160 


ELIZA 


self he begged to marry her right away and, as 
she was the very lady his father had picked out for 
him, they were married. The strangest part of it 
was, when he went to look into the mummy’s case 
it was empty except for a slip of paper on which 
was written, T go to return to the land of my 
fathers.’ I never look at this mummy but what I 
wish I knew exactly what she had been — if she was 
a princess — what — ” 

The last word was scarcely out of Eliza’s mouth 
when a loud crash came. It seemed to be right at 
them, and they bolted. They fled to the corner of 
the room farthest from the door. Eliza led, Stella 
and Susan, with Harry between them, came 
next, and William, with Cammie swinging on to his 
coat, followed. Cammie kept crying, “Wait, Wil- 
liam, wait — please do,” but William lost no time. 
He stumbled once and fell with Cammie on top, 
but they both wriggled up without a moment’s de- 
lay. All of them at last came to a stop when they 
butted against the far wall and against each other, 
breathless and completely panic-stricken. 

“What on earth was it?” they asked. 

“I wouldn’t pass that mummy’s case again for a 
million dollars,” said William, shaking his head. 

“We’ll have to stay here all night,” said Susan, 
shivering until her teeth chattered. 

“It was all Eliza’s fault, telling us that ghost 


AN EGYPTIAN PRINCESS 


161 


tale,” said William, but Harry punched him in the 
ribs and made him hush. 

“I believe,” sobbed Cammie, “that it was the 
mummy that made that noise.” 

“I could ’most declare I saw it move a little,” said 
Stella, wishing she had never left her country home. 

“Wouldn’t it be wonderful if it should rise and 
dance for us?” asked Eliza, who was enjoying the 
situation in spite of her fears. “I have heard that 
they do strange things if you will believe in them.” 

“We don’t want to believe in them. We wish we 
didn’t,” whispered the other three girls, hugging 
each other without knowing it. 

“We could all catch hold of hands and run out 
as fast as we could,” suggested Eliza. 

“Never!” They all spoke at once. 

“Harry could go first,” said Eliza. “He is my 
brave knight and — ” 

“I won’t go first,” said Harry firmly. “You 
needn’t to ask it, Eliza.” 

“You could pretend like you had a sword , 
Harry.” 

“Pretend nothing! I’d be snatched through the 
ceiling and borne to Egypt in less than a second.” 

“Well, there’s no use asking William to,” said 
Eliza hopelessly. “We might as well decide to 
spend the night.” 

“No, there ain’t no use,” said William. “I never 
come here to be murdered , Eliza.” 


162 


ELIZA 


“Oh — oh!” wailed Cammie in a low voice, clutch- 
ing at William’s coat, whereupon he freed himself 
immediately. They were now almost under one of 
the cases and were crowding terribly. 

“These cases are about as bad to sleep close to as 
the mummy,” whispered Eliza. “They are full of 
dead people’s things.” All of them shifted their 
positions at once to the farthest wall. 

“I’d rather be fighting in a battle than be here,” 
said William desperately. “I’m plumb crazy 
’most.” 

“Maybe the caretaker will come in before he 
leaves for the night,” suggested Harry. 

“He’s already gone. It’s as dark as Egypt out- 
doors,” said Eliza, pointing toward the high win- 
dows that had ceased to admit even a ray of light. 

“Locked in with these,” was the horrible thought 
that assailed each child. With one impulse they 
covered their faces to await the dawn. 

The cause of it all was this: Old Mr. Booker, 
who was very deaf, had taken forty winks (which 
lasted nearly an hour). He awoke with a jump 
that made him overturn the stand which held the 
Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary. It fell with 
the crash which had frightened the children half out 
of their wits. Mr. Booker saw it was closing time, 
so he got his hat and departed. At the outer door 
he met Mr. Champe, who asked if the children had 


AN EGYPTIAN PRINCESS 


163 


yet started for home. For the first time, Mr. 
Booker remembered the children, but, not liking 
to confess to his nap, he said : 

“Why, yes, I know they left some time ago.” 

“Very well,” said Mr. Champe, turning away; 
“they telephoned me at my office that they hadn’t 
reached home yet, but, probably they are there by 
now.” 

As Mr. Booker continued down the street to his 
home a block distant, he said to himself, “The chil- 
dren must have gone while I slept. I hope they 
won’t mention my sleeping — I have held the posi- 
tion so long now, and the board might think — ” 
Just then, he reached his own door and entered the 
house. Ten minutes later the ’phone rang — it was 
Mr. Champe on the line. 

“Hello, Mr. Booker, would you mind meeting 
me again at the historical building? Or, if you’d 
rather, I will call for the key. The children haven’t 
gone home yet, and their mother thinks it just pos- 
sible that they may be locked in there.” 

As soon as they were together, Mr. Booker ac- 
knowledged to his nap and Mr. Champe said, “I 
suspected it, but it will go no further. I don’t see 
why you shouldn’t doze occasionally if you like.” 

“I don’t believe the children are here, though,” 
said Mr. Booker as he turned the key in the lock. 
“Why should they want to stay so long?” 


164 


ELIZA 


“There is no telling,” said Mr. Champe. “I am 
just beginning to learn something about them my- 
self. I bet anything, though, that we will find them 
here.” 

When the children heard approaching footsteps, 
they thought the worst was about to happen and let 
forth a yell that even old Mr. Booker pronounced 
deafening. After some minutes, however, Mr. 
Champe succeeded in convincing them that he was 
no ghost and got them to their feet. As they 
passed the mummy’s case they crowded, pushing 
Mr. Booker right against it. He looked surprised, 
for he had lived with that mummy too long to be 
afraid of it. 


CHAPTER XIII 

WILLIAM DECIDES IN FAVOR OF METHODISM 

T HERE was some discussion among them- 
selves as to which church they should attend 
next morning, but they finally decided for 
Trinity, the largest Episcopal church in town and 
one which none of them had ever attended. 

They paired off as before. Susan and Eliza 
wore their new checked silks and felt very fine, 
Cammie was a picture in her blue linen and hat to 
match, while Stella wore a dress of snowy freshness. 
William’s suit had been brushed until it looked new, 
and Harry felt quite at peace with himself in his 
Sunday serge as he walked by Eliza’s side. 

The Sunday school was just being dismissed as 
they reached the church, and they naturally went 
in — the door out of which the children were pour- 
ing. This was not the door that led into the main 
body of the church at all, but into a chapel and 
Sunday school rooms. With many twists and 
turns the children became bewildered. Eliza led, 
not knowing at all where she was leading, but 
finally, as luck would have it, they stopped short in 

front of a very tall man who proved to be the min- 
165 


166 


ELIZA 


ister. Seeing they were strangers and lost, he 
kindly patted Eliza on the head and asked what 
they wanted. She told him they were hunting for 
the right part of the church. Then he turned to a 
man who stood near and said, 

“Mr. Wright, take these children to my pew.” 

“Thank you, sir,” said Eliza, smiling sweetly. 
And, long after they were seated, Eliza kept think- 
ing of his kindness and feeling very grateful about 
it. 

When the choir entered, William, who had never 
been in a large Episcopal church before, was much 
impressed. “Eliza,” he whispered, “they look like 
angels.” 

“It’s a vested choir,” answered Eliza. 

“Where?” asked William uncomprehensibly. 

“The choir,” said Eliza. “You rise and sit like 
I do,” and she opened her prayer book. She never 
fully forgave William for his part in what followed. 

They were all kneeling, and William, who found 
so much praying a little tiresome, began fingering 
his pocket knife. Accidentally, the knife fell from 
his hand and rolled away under the pew in front. 
It was too distant to reach with his hand, so he 
pushed his foot far under to rake it out. Eliza saw 
it but the other children did not. Just as the min- 
ister said, “We humbly beseech Thee for all sorts 
and conditions of men,” she saw William screwing 


IN FAVOR OF METHODISM 


167 


his foot and realized that it was caught. Then, she 
laughed aloud! 

Her mortification the minute she did it, knew no 
bounds. She also became aware that she was go- 
ing to laugh again as sure as she looked at Wil- 
liam's foot, and she knew no power in her command 
could possibly stay her eyes from that direction. 
It was this losing control of herself that made her 
angry. She pinched her arm until the pain became 
excruciating, and all to no avail. It almost seemed 
as if there had been a pause in the minister’s prayers 
when she had laughed. It was awful, after his 
kindness, for her to act thus! 

“Eliza,” whispered William desperately, after 
trying for what seemed an age to get his foot loose, 
“what am I going to do when they get up? I’m 
fastened.” 

“Take off your shoe,” she whispered, not daring 
to look in his direction. But, when she heard him 
stoop to do her bidding, she had to look. He was 
in a most peculiar strain, trying to take off his shoe 
and at the same time hide his predicament from 
Cammie. Eliza exploded again! 

William managed somehow to slip his foot from 
the shoe in time to stand with the others. Eliza 
found it was no use trying to control herself, for 
every time she glanced at William’s stockinged foot, 
she became hysterical. Mortified as never before, 


168 


ELIZA 


her face crimson with shame, she managed to stand 
during the singing. 

As for William, a more miserable looking boy 
could not have been found. Bereft of both his 
knife and shoe, his disgust knew no bounds. As 
the singing proceeded he threw back his head re- 
signedly and listened, but when the minister en- 
tered the pulpit to begin the sermon it was too 
much. 

“Is he jest beginnin’ to preach ?” he asked Eliza. 

“Yes,” she whispered. 

“I’m wore out now, standin’ and kneelin’ so 
much. Let’s go.” 

“Can’t,” whispered Eliza. “Do hush.” 

After about an hour, the choir arose again and 
William thought it was all to do over. 

“I never was so tired of preaching,” he whis- 
pered, standing on one foot and trying to hide the 
other one from Cammie. After service he had re- 
solved on letting the others pass out first so he 
could get his shoe without being noticed. 

“Get out,” said Susan a few minutes later; “get 
out and let us pass — it’s over.” 

“Go on,” he said, flattening himself as much as 
possible, “I have to stay and get my knife; it’s un- 
der the seat.” 

The minister stood at the church door shaking 
hands. Eliza hoped there might be an opportunity 


IN FAVOR OF METHODISM 


169 


for explaining to him, but the people crowded so 
that she merely touched his hand. “What must he 
think of me?” was her woeful reflection. 

On the way home William declared he was never 
going to be an Episcopalian. “Good old Method- 
ism for mine,” he said. “I don’t like so much ex- 
ercise in church. I like to set.” 

“It don’t matter what church you belong to, Wil- 
liam,” said Susan. “Only, I feel religious-er in my 
own church, ’cause I’m used to it, I guess.” 

“It’s a right grand old church, Susan,” said 
Harry. “Eliza, what was the matter with you? 3 ’ 

“I behaved awful,” said poor Eliza, whose con- 
science pricked worse than ever. “It was all Wil- 
liam’s fault. I never did hate myself before. It 
was like being a different person. I hate to hate 
myself . I pinched my arm so it hurts yet and 
that’s not all. I am not going to eat my ice cream 
for dinner as a punishment.” 

“What did William do?” asked Cammie. 

“Nothing,” said William promptly, beseeching 
Eliza with his eyes not to tell. 

“Very well,” said Eliza, who was too miserable 
to talk anyway, “if you don’t want her to know, 
I won’t tell. It won’t do me any good now any- 
way. I hate like fury to think about it all and 
what that polite minister must have thought of 


170 


ELIZA 


“Why aren’t you eating your dessert, Eliza?” 
asked her mother at dinner table. “And you don’t 
look like yourself, dearie — what is it?” 

“I’m punishing myself for something,” said 
Eliza. 

“Would you mind telling me what for?” she 
asked, smiling. 

“For laughing in church, Mother. And going 
without my ice cream isn’t all I intend doing. I 
haven’t decided yet what else, but it will be worse 
than this.” 

“I never knew you to laugh in church. Why did 
you?” 

Eliza then told everything. When she finished, 
everybody was amused except herself. 

“It was awful in me,” she declared. “I’ve al- 
ready pinched my arm black and blue on account 
of it.” 

“Show me the place,” said Mother. 

Eliza lifted her sleeve. There were two bad 
bruises between her wrist and elbow. 

“Oh, oh!” exclaimed Stella and Susan in one 
breath. 

“That was very foolish, Eliza,” said Mrs. Dud- 
ley. “Why don’t you try to make amends?” 

“How can I?” 

“Why, wait until to-morrow and then go to Mr. 
Morgan and tell him all about it. He was a child 


IN FAVOR OF METHODISM 


171 


once and will understand. I can’t have you bruise 
yourself that way — it’s silly.” 

“Do you care if I eat nothing but a piece of cold 
cornbread for my supper?” asked Eliza, determined 
to inflict to the fullest. 

“Well — no. Cornbread is good wholesome food, 
and denying yourself is good.” 

The next day Eliza, true to her resolutions, made 
her way to Mr. Morgan’s study. That it was a 
hard thing for her to do was evinced by the many 
times she halfway turned back and then pushed 
straight on, her lips pressed tight. 

“Yes — Dr. Morgan was in his study — would she 
come in.” 

The minister looked up from his papers, and 
when he saw his visitor was a little girl, his eyes 
became very kind and fatherly. 

“Won’t you sit down, my dear,” he said, not 
recognizing her in the least, for which Eliza felt 
thankful. 

“No, sir. I wanted to make amends.” 

“Oh — you do. What is it all about, dear?” 

“I laughed in church yesterday. I didn’t mean 
to. William, my cousin, got his foot caught and 
it was his wiggling it that got me in such a laughing 
way. You had been so kind — letting us sit in your 
pew, and I was so ashamed I didn’t know what to 
do.” 


172 


ELIZA 


“Ah — I see! So you were the well-dressed 
little girl who lost your way in a strange church? 
I was very happy to tender my pew to you and your 
nice little friends.” 

Eliza looked startled, but the minister inno- 
cently continued: 

“And how are your little friends to-day? You 
all impressed me very favorably — such well-cared- 
for children.” 

“I must go,” said Eliza in a colorless voice. 

“But what is it? What have I said to offend 
you?” asked the minister, puzzled. 

Eliza went up to his desk and leaned over it. 
Her eyes were very intent — her face white. 

“Mr. Morgan,” she said “I want you to tell me, 
if we — if we had been dressed in poor red calico 
dresses like Maggie at school and if our hair had 
been tied with frayed ribbons and — everything else 
to match, would you — would you have asked us 
to sit in your pew?” Her voice was unsteady, but 
her eyes looked searchingly into his. “Would you, 
sir?” she insisted eagerly. 

Mr. Morgan saw it was a vital moment with the 
child, and knew much depended on the answer he 
gave. He took her hand and said earnestly, “I 
believe — I am sure , dearie, that I would have done 
it much quicker even than I did, but no little girls 
in red calico dresses ever come to my church. I 
wish they did.” 


IN FAVOR OF METHODISM 


173 


“Oh, I’m glad. I’m glad of it, sir. I’m so glad 
I could — I could just — just bless you, Mr Mor- 
gan.” 

With these words she turned and left the room. 


CHAPTER XIV 


THE MEETING OF THE CLUB 

M RS. DUDLEY went to the country about 
the middle of May. She wrote back 
about how she had arrived just in time 
for the cherries, and about the blossoming trees and 
new happenings that made the children hungry to 
go. 

“ I can hear the crickets cricketing and the katy- 
dids katydiding from the tall trees right now,” 
Eliza confided to Mr. Champe as she sat on his lap 
on the porch one evening, hugging tight a white 
poodle, his latest gift. “I just wish I could run 
now — this very minute — barefooted in the tickling 
blue-grass and put my lips to the holes that the 
peckerwoods made in the sugar maples and suck 
out the sugar water.” 

“You little idealist,” said Mr. Champe, kissing 
her. 

“Eliza talks curious,” said Susan, who had ap- 
proached in time to hear the last remark. “She 
knows we could not go barefooted yet, and the 
maples are not ready to suck.” 

“Oh, yes they are,” declared Eliza. “I know 
they are, for I can feel it in my bones.” 

174 


THE MEETING OF THE CLUB 175 


“There’s Aunt J ane calling us to go to bed,” said 
Susan, rising. 

“Aunt Jane fiddlesticks,” said Eliza, rising also 
as the aunt appeared at the front door. 

“Come, dearies — like good girlies. They’ve been 
splendid, so far, Mr. Champe. I couldn’t ask any 
better.” 

Mr. Champe took his cigar from his lips and 
knocked the ashes from it. “They’re fine,” he said, 
kissing them both. 

“Yes, I’m good,” said Eliza, “but Susan’s splen- 
did.” 

“How queer to acknowledge one’s own good- 
ness,” said Aunt Jane. 

“They’re honest. I like to listen to them. They 
are as refreshing as a spring shower,” declared Mr. 
Champe. 

They had hated very much to have their mother 
leave, but, after she had talked it over with them 
many times, they had become somewhat reconciled. 
What they disliked most was having to stay with 
Aunt Jane, but, as Eliza had stoutly said, “We 
can stand a month with anybody, even if it is a 
dragon,” not at all meaning to be uncomplimentary. 

The night after Mrs. Dudley’s departure, the 
club met with Mrs. Edwards, and Harry and an- 
other boy were to take Eliza and Susan. Mrs. 
Dudley had forgotten to mention this to Aunt Jane, 


176 


ELIZA 


who had hitherto failed to notice their habit of go- 
ing with little boys. When they opened the front 
door to admit their guests, the aunt was plainly 
scandalized. “What!” she exclaimed, “going with 
boys at your ages? It is ridiculous!” 

“We’re used to it,” replied Eliza grandly. 
“Good night, Aunt Jane. We’ll be back before 
ten.” 

“You have no wrap on. Here, take my lace 
scarf.” 

“I don’t want to,” said Eliza, fearing she might 
injure it. 

“You shall not go without,” said the aunt, de- 
terminedly wrapping it around Eliza’s shoulders. 

“Oh, very well,” said Eliza. “It isn’t warm a 
bit though. Just lace and stuff.” 

“I feel better for your wearing it, precious. 
Kiss me, both of you. Here, I want to kiss your 
eyes, my beautifuls.” 

They submitted. 

When the children reached Mrs. Edwards’, the 
meeting had begun. As they entered the room, the 
president rapped on the little table in front of him 
for order. 

“Mr. Secretary, will you read the minutes of the 
last meeting?” he said impressively. 

Ethel Morrison arose, cleared her throat, and be- 
gan in a monotonous tone: “The Excelsior Club 


THE MEETING OF THE CLUB 177 


met with Mrs. Child, April 16 th, when minutes of 
the last meeting were read and one new member 
admitted. The treasurer handed in her report. 
Ways and means were discussed by which the Club 
could give a charity benefit play in the Welches’ 
yard this summer, but the idea was given up on ac- 
count of so many absentees from the club in the 
summer time. A motion was then made to disband 
in June and reorganize again in the fall. Motion 
was accepted. The club paper was read by Miss 
Cammie Welche. The main feature of the paper 
was a story by the assistant editor. Mr. Harry 
Welche contributed an editorial on ‘Why the Earth 
is Round’ ; but, although well written, it was a little 
chestnutty because all the fifth grades had studied 
it for some time before.” (Harry could be heard 
clearing his throat, while others tittered.) “Games 
were then played,” continued the secretary, “and 
refreshments served. The meeting adjourned to 
meet next time with Mrs. Edwards.” 

The secretary took her seat amidst loud applause. 
The president arose. He ran his eye calmly down 
a tablet and proceeded to call the roll, after which 
he asked for the treasurer’s report. 

Lottie Damon arose. She wore glasses through 
which her pretty black eyes sparkled; her cheeks 
were crimson from embarrassment; her voice low: 

“The fines for absent members this year have 


178 


ELIZA 


amounted to one dollar and thirty-seven cents. 
Most of it is still due. There are three dollars and 
three cents in the treasury, including fees and 
everything.” 

“The paper will now he read by Miss Cammie 
Welche,” announced the president. Cammie arose 
and bowed. 

“The paper is short this week on account of the 
editor’s being sick the first part of the week. 
There’s a short story by the assistant editor.” 

Eliza arose, smiling sweetly. “This,” she said 
impressively, “is different from anything I ever 
wrote. It is called, ‘The Child, the Garden and 
the Wall.’ 

“Once there was a little girl named Wynne. 
She climbed a huge wall. It was the ordinary kind 
of stone wall except taller and she didn’t know what 
was on the other side until she got over. She found 
the loveliest and most wonderful flower garden she 
had even seen. Imagine how delighted she was — 
and how she ran about everywhere, breaking off the 
flowers and not caring in the least that they did not 
belong to her. That night she would not climb over 
the wall for fear of losing the garden and not being 
able to find it any more. 

“The next day she ran about the same way, taking 
all she could — although she did stop once or twice 
and glance toward the wall, thinking she ought to 


THE MEETING OF THE CLUB 179 


leave what was not hers. But she hadn’t the 
strength, so that night she again remained inside 
the wall. The third day everything was sweeter 
than ever and she wandered farther and farther 
away from the wall, gathering more and more of 
the flowers. Finally she arrived at that part of the 
garden where the wishing vine grew. There, at 
high noon, she fell asleep. A most beautiful Fairy 
came and stood over her. The Fairy said, ‘Wynne, 
little girl, don’t you want to make a truly wish?’ 

“ ‘What is a truly wish?’ asked Wynne rubbing 
her eyes. 

“ ‘A truly wish,’ replied the Fairy, ‘is the very 
best wish you can think of and it will be sure to come 
true.’ 

“ ‘How must I go about it?’ asked Wynne, in- 
terested. 

“ ‘You must take a leaf off the wishing vine 
and rub it. Then, you shut your eyes and walk 
backwards as hard as you can go all the time, saying 
what you wish — but remember, let it be something 
good.’ 

“ ‘Well,’ said Wynne, thinking hard, ‘I wish I 
had the strength to leave this beautiful garden — 
because it isn’t mine and I’ve no right to pull the 
flowers — I wish I could leave it — I wish I could 
leave it — I wish I could leave it.’ She kept go- 
ing backwards and kept rubbing the leaf she had 


180 


ELIZA 


pulled as the Fairy had told her to do. Finally, 
when she awoke, she was outside the wall. 

“Now, here conies the prettiest part of it all. 
Because she had wished an honest wish and had tried 
to do it, the Fairy waved her wand and made her 
owner of the whole garden forever and ever.” 

Eliza sat down, smiling sweetly. The clapping 
was tremendous. 

“It is not so good as your last one, Eliza,” said 
one girl. 

“I like it,” returned Eliza composedly. “It is 
by far the best thing I ever wrote.” 

“What made you think of it?” asked Harry, 
puzzled. 

“Oh, it was so hard for me to do something one 
day — and this story popped into my head all in a 
minute. I wish there were fairies nowadays — and 
I wish grand things could happen to us.” 

“Let’s play,” suggested some of the boys. 

Games began. There was “Clap In and Clap 
Out,” “King William,” “In Some Lady’s New 
Brick House,” and “Handkerchief.” Afterward, 
they were all ushered into the dining-room, where 
ice cream and cake and other good things awaited 
them. 

On the way home Eliza confided to Harry that 
she never would like kissing games. “It made me 
mad when Herburt Sneed tried to kiss me,” she 


THE MEETING OF THE CLUB 181 


said. “I don’t see why you-all don’t cut out that 
kind of game.” 

“The girls like them better than the boys,” said 
Harry. 

“I don’t believe a single girl likes them,” declared 
Eliza stoutly. “I would be ashamed to say a thing 
like that, Harry Welche.” 

“Oh, they pretend they don’t,” said Harry, nod- 
ding, “but I don’t put much faith in that. Cammie 
says once a girl told her that she liked the boys best 
who insisted on kissing her.” 

“Well, I don’t. I’d hate a boy who would do 
that. I’d hate and despise him.” 

“Maybe it’s because you are not used to it,” said 
Harry. “I never went to a party that they didn’t 
play ‘King William,’ and it is always very popu- 
lar.” 

“In the country,” said Eliza, “we often play 
games, but I never saw a kissing one played until 
I came to town. When you and Cammie come to 
see us this summer we will show you how we play,”' 
she added, feeling proud as never before of her 
country origin. 

“We are all children ” said Harry. “It seems 
to me the best way to do is just hold up your mouth 
and kiss. Annie Mitchel always does that and I 
think it looks nice.” 

“She’s the youngest girl in the crowd,” said Eliza. 


182 


ELIZA 


“That might be the reason,” said Harry. “Any- 
way, I don’t believe you pretend anything, Eliza. 
I wouldn’t try to kiss you because I’d be afraid you 
would never like me again.” 

“It would not hurt to try , Harry. They might 
think you didn’t want to kiss me, you know.” 

“All right then,” said Harry. “The next time 
they pick me out for you I will. Maybe if you 
would practice a little — ” 

“I may practice on William this summer — as he’s 
my cousin,” said Eliza, who did not want to seem 
an oddity. 

“I’ll lick him if you do,” said Harry so fiercely 
that Eliza hushed. 

“There!” she exclaimed, stopping abruptly, “if 
I haven’t gone and left Aunt Jane’s shawl at Mrs. 
Edwards’. Now, what shall I do!” 

“I believe you had it when we started,” said 
Harry. “Let’s walk back a little way and see if 
you haven’t dropped it.” 

“I see it up yonder in the street,” said Eliza, has- 
tening. Harry followed and when she stooped to 
pick up the shawl he stooped also, saying, “Let me 
get it for you, Eliza.” When they arose their 
hands were covered with a black sticky something 
that they began to wipe off on their clothes. 
“What on earth — ” began Eliza. 

“It’s tar,” said Harry. “I saw the men working 


THE MEETING OF THE CLUB 183 


here to-day and they must have spilled a puddle 
of it. It looked like a black scarf.” 

“My dress is completely ruined, and my hands 
as black as ever,” said Eliza. “What will Aunt 
Jane think?” 

“I guess she’ll scold some,” said Harry. “I’ve 
ruined my suit too, but there’s nobody at home who 
will take the trouble to care. A new one is so easy 
to get and our housekeeper, Mrs. Mathews, don’t 
pay us much attention. F ather is always too busy. 
Sometimes I pine for a real mother , Eliza.” 

“Never mind,” said Eliza, touching his arm in 
sympathy. “When you and Cammie come to the 
country this summer I’ll divide mine with you. 
You’ve got a lovely sister — that’s something.” 

“Cammie’s cold-blooded,” said Harry. “But I 
am proud of her beauty.” 

“Yes, indeed,” said Eliza. “It isn’t everybody 
that can look at a pretty face like that all day.” 

“Here we are,” said he, helping her up the steps. 
“I guess Susan got here way ahead of us.” 

“Will you come in?” asked Eliza politely, know- 
ing what the answer would be. 

“No, thanks. I must be going.” 

Aunt Jane opened the door. “What is that on 
your dress?” 

“It’s tar,” said Eliza grimly. “I hoped you’d be 
asleep.” 


184 


ELIZA 


“What do you mean? How did you do it? I 
am perfectly shocked at you.” 

“I was trying to find your scarf,” said Eliza. 

“What!” 

“Your lace scarf I lost.” Aunt Jane’s expres- 
sion was beyond description. 

“My dearest possession,” she exclaimed, sinking 
into the nearest chair. 

“It may not be lost for good,” ventured Eliza. 
“It may still be at Mrs. Edwards’.” 

“Go to bed!” commanded Aunt Jane. “My 
nerves are in a stew.” 

Eliza said her prayers very earnestly that night : 
“Dear God, bless us all. And please, God, don’t 
let me hate Aunt Jane — as I am so afraid I might 
do if You don’t use Your influence with me to keep 
me from it. And one other thing, God; don’t let 
me hate boy-kissing if it is the proper thing to like 
it. Amen.” 

“Susan,” she whispered long after they were sup- 
posed to he asleep, “I’ve been trying to imagine 
Aunt Jane different for hours, but it makes me 
tired. I never was in a fix before where I couldn’t 
imagine what I wanted to.” 

“Let’s imagine Mother is here,” said Susan prac- 
tically. 

“No — no. I’m obliged to get Aunt Jane to suit 
me first. If my imagination won’t work, I’m gone 
up, for I couldn’t bear her as she is.” 


THE MEETING OF THE CLUB 185 


“She is not very — er — prepossessing,” murmured 
Susan sleepily. 

“But, I think I’ll get her fixed directly,” said 
Eliza hopefully, turning her face to the wall. 


CHAPTER XV 


CAMMIE AND HARRY IN TROUBLE 

P ERHAPS if the last days of school had not 
been filled so completely with studying for 
examinations, Aunt Jane’s nerves would 
have received more shocks than they did, but a 
glimpse into her diary will show she was not alto- 
gether free in this respect : 

“This is a lovely city — and the people are almost 
— not quite but almost — like my dear friends at 
home. I really have enjoyed my stay very much . 
The little girls are interesting } and if I were an on- 
looker and not in charge I should enjoy them im- 
mensely. They have not been brought up as I have 
been accustomed to seeing children brought up, for 
poor Clarise has treated them with a sort of confi- 
dence one would accord a grown person. Another 
thing, they do not show the intense affection I like 
and it is a great disappointment to one of my warm 
nature, however, although one never knows what 
to expect of them; as far as real principles go, they 
are not lacking. This is a very lovely house. I 
almost wish we could spend the summer here. Last 

week I heard it was for sale with all the furnishings, 

186 


CAMMIE AND HARRY IN TROUBLE 187 


and I thought I might venture to buy it — not a bad 
investment even though I didn’t choose to live in it 
all the time — but when I reached the real estate of- 
fice he said it had just been bought by Mr. Howell 
Champe. What a pity I did not arrive sooner — ” 

One Sunday morning as Miss Jane sat over her 
coffee Johnson brought the morning paper and laid 
it beside her plate. 

“Why, what’s this!” she exclaimed. “The 
Fourth National Bank’s Reported Failure. 
Mr. Welches Absence from Town Causes 
Alarm. A Run on Bank Expected.” 

“Mr. Welche?” exclaimed Eliza and Susan, push- 
ing forward. “That must be our Mr. Welche.” 

Just then Mr. Champe was announced and 
brought straight into the dining-room. “Ah, I see 
you have been reading about the bank. I am not 
worried. I could stake my life on Welche,” he said. 

“Have you any money there?” asked Miss Jane. 

“More than I’d care to lose,” he answered, smil- 
ing. 

“Is it a failure?” asked Eliza, thinking of her 
friends next door. 

“No — no. Just a sensation that will blow over. 
I came to say that I am going to a place not far 
from Glenraven to-day and will call there before I 
return. Is there any message?” 


188 


ELIZA 


Eliza and Susan looked eager. He had taken 
them out the last Sunday and they were in hopes — 

“No — I can’t to-day,” he said decidedly. “I first 
have to go about fifteen miles north of there — and 
it would be a tiresome trip for you.” 

“Give our love to Mother — and tell her it’s just 
one more little week.” 

“She knows that,” he said, smiling. “I expect 
she even knows the minutes.” 

“It’s time to dress for Sunday school,” announced 
Aunt Jane as soon as breakfast was over. She 
rose briskly and motioned Eliza and Susan to fol- 
low. 

“I wonder if Cammie and Harry are worried,” 
said Eliza. “I don’t feel like going to Sunday 
school with my friends in trouble.” 

“Neither do I,” declared Susan. “I want to go 
over there.” 

“They haven’t any mother — nobody ’cept just 
that housekeeper and I think we ought to go com- 
fort them. There’s no telling how miserable they 
are,” said Eliza, watching Aunt Jane to see how she 
was impressed. 

“Well, you won’t go now ” declared the aunt, 
whose affection for the Welche family had dimin- 
ished considerably in the last few minutes. “You 
shall go to Sunday school as usual and stay to 
church afterwards. Now march and dress.” 


CAMMIE AND HARRY IN TROUBLE 189 


“I hate Aunt Jane — I can’t seem to help it,” 
whispered Eliza, as she and Susan climbed the 
stairs. 

Susan said nothing, but purposely took a long 
time making her toilet. “I want to be late,” she 
explained to Eliza. 

“So do I,” answered Eliza. “But I have to dress 
quickly. I never could dawdle over anything even 
for my own benefit. I’ll tell you what let’s do — 
and I believe it will be right. Let’s go over there 
instead of to Sunday school. We don’t have to 
ever let Aunt Jane know, and it is our solemn duty 
to comfort our friends in trouble.” 

“All right,” said Susan. “For once I believe we 
ought to deceive Aunt Jane.” 

When Miss Jane, handsomely attired, walked 
into church and took the accustomed pew, she gave 
a covert glance around, searching for her nieces, 
but did not see them. “They must still be in the 
Sunday school room,” she thought, opening her 
prayer book. As they did not appear even after 
service began, she concluded they were sitting with 
friends further back in the church and determined 
to admonish them for such behavior. After service, 
she met some friends of her own who made her en- 
tirely forget about the girls, and it was not until 
dinner was nearly over that she remembered to ask 
them where they had sat. 


190 


ELIZA 


“We never went at all,” said Eliza. “We went 
to the Welches’.” 

The bomb exploded ! 

After a long lecture they were sent to bed, where 
they were told to reflect on their sins. If Aunt 
Jane felt any compunction about punishing them, 
she was far from showing it, for her mouth was 
drawn down tight as if to say, “I’m determined you 
shall feel the consequences of your actions.” 

But, reflecting on their sins was not the way in 
which Susan and Eliza spent the time. They were 
thinking again of their visit to their friends and were 
wondering and planning ways and means by which 
they might comfort and help them. 

When the Welches’ front door had been opened 
to admit them, Eliza had been shocked by Cammie’s 
appearance. Her eyes were very red from crying 
and her nose was pink. Even her dress looked be- 
draggled as if she had worn it a month. Harry 
bore up better, because, as he explained, he was not 
thinking so much about how they might be obliged 
to live in a humble cottage — such as haunted Cam- 
mie’s dreams, as he was worrying over his father 
and trying to solve what had become of him. “I 
never knew how much I thought of dear old dad 
before,” he said. “We haven’t seen him for two 
days and a reporter has been here asking me all 
sorts of questions which I had to answer although I 
felt like I was probably doing him harm by it.” 


CAMMIE AND HARRY IN TROUBLE 191 


“I am mad with Father,” said Cammie cruelly. 
4 ‘Here I have to come out in society with not a red 
cent to my back.” She began to sob, but Eliza 
looked at her a little scornfully, for she couldn’t ad- 
mire her words. 

“Father has done nothing wrong,” said Harry 
sternly. “I could swear that he will make good if 
they will give him time.” 

“Banks have failed before,” sobbed Cammie, “and 
it always turns out awful. I haven’t much hope.” 

“You and Harry could come and live with us,” 
said Eliza, feeling for a ray of hope and finding it. 

“I’d never go anywhere looking like a ragamuf- 
fin. I’d rather bury myself in the beginning,” said 
Cammie. 

“You couldn’t look ugly,” said Eliza, “and you 
could imagine a calico dress was a silk one and you 
could be a princess in disguise, Cammie — a noble 
princess to whom wonderful things could happen 
nearly every day and — ” 

“Hush,” sobbed Cammie. “It’s just like telling 
a sick person to imagine she was well. I wish you’d 
hu-sh J Eliza.” 

“Pride must have a fall sometime,” said Harry, 
impatiently. “You are getting paid now, Cammie, 
for turning up your nose at poor people.” 

“Hush, Harry,” said Eliza; “I can’t bear to see 
her pretty eyes so red.” 


192 


ELIZA 


“I wish I knew what to do for you,” said Susan 
with tears in her eyes. “Mr. Champe says he don’t 
believe it’s as bad as the papers say.” 

“He believes in your father with all his might / 3 
said Eliza, rising to go. “We will pray for you all. 
That’s the best we can do. Good-by.” 

As they left, while Susan was talking to Cammie, 
Harry whispered to Eliza so the others couldn’t 
hear: “Don’t tell Susan, but I want you to meet 
me at the honeysuckle-spread to-night after every- 
body is in bed. It’s very important. I have some- 
thing to tell you that may change everything for the 
better.” 

“What time?” asked Eliza hastily. 

“I’ll be there waiting at ten o’clock.” 

“All right. I’ll promise to come,” she whispered. 

And after Aune Jane had sent them to bed, she 
suddenly remembered her promise and wondered 
how on earth she was ever going to be able to keep 


CHAPTER XVI 

THE RESULTS OF ELIZA 

I T was half-past ten that night before she could 
manage it. “I verily believe Aunt Jane has 
eyes in the back of her head,” she said as she 
reached the honeysuckle-spread and the waiting 
Harry. “She always before this has been asleep 
by ten o’clock anyway, but when I tried to slip out 
then, she heard me and called, ‘Eliza,’ and then I 
had to go back and lie there waiting ages for her 
to go to sleep. As it was, I climbed down that 
porch column where the big locust tree puts it in 
darkness, for I didn’t want to leave the door un- 
locked. I’m very tired.” 

“I appreciate your taking so much trouble for 
me, I’ve a wonderful dream to tell you, Eliza.” 

“Do you mean to say you put me to this trouble 
for a silly old dream?” Eliza asked disgustedly. 

“I thought you wanted to help me,” said Harry. 
“I do. I didn’t come to listen to dreams 
“This one bears on the subject. Don’t you be- 
lieve in dreams, Eliza?” 

“Well — yes. I always did believe in them a lit- 
tle bit.” 


193 


194 


ELIZA 


“You see this bag I’ve got in my hand?” said 
Harry. 

“Well?” Eliza was trying to be patient. 

“It holds money, Eliza. A whole hundred dol- 
lars that I got when I sold my last pony.” 

“What are you going to do with it?” she asked, 
much impressed. 

“That’s what I’m going to tell you now,” he said, 
seating himself on the honeysuckle-spread and mo- 
tioning Eliza to do the same. 

“You know, Father has been gone two days now. 
Saturday night was the first time we knew about 
the bank when we saw the night’s paper. Imme- 
diately I guessed at the truth. Father has seemed 
so worried lately, but I never took much notice un- 
til this happened; then the thought suddenly oc- 
curred to me that maybe he had been speculating or 
something and lost our money and other people’s. 
I studied about it until I went to sleep. Then I 
began to dream all sorts of things, but the only 
dream I remembered was this one: I thought Fa- 
ther came to me and said, ‘Son, I have to run in 
hiding until all this blows over because the people 
are going to rise up in arms at their losses. I intend 
to come back and make good, of course, when they 
will let me, but now I must run. Son, there’s one 
thing that’s troubling me ; I haven’t a bit of money 
to help me off. I didn’t think of it.’ ‘Take mine,’ 


THE RESULTS OF ELIZA 


195 


I cried, running and getting this bag for him. 
‘Thank you — you’ve saved me,’ he said, and left.” 

“Well,” said Eliza, who had listened breathlessly 
to Harry’s dream. “It was funny, but I don’t see 
where I come in.” 

“That’s what I’m coming to now,” said Harry. 
“I woke up after I had dreamed that, and the day- 
light was beginning to creep in at the windows. It 
was all so real that at first I thought it had sure 
enough happened. When I found my mistake, I 
went back to sleep again and I dreamed this: I 
thought I saw my father hiding in Rose's Mill Cave. 
I ran upon him accidentally and he looked at me 
so reproachfully and said, ‘Son, I trusted you; why 
didn’t you bring the money ?’ Then I woke up for 
good, and I have had it on my mind all day.” 

Eliza was very silent for a minute, until the full 
significance of Harry’s meaning came to her. “You 
think he’s there waiting?” she asked. 

“I’m sure of it,” replied Harry. 

“Then, why haven’t you run to him before this? 
Go at once, Harry, before it is too late.” 

“Eliza,” said Harry, “I know you are going to 
hate me after what I tell you now, but I couldn’t go 
in the daylight, because if he’s hiding, somebody 
might have followed me and found him and then be- 
sides, it never seemed so true then. I can’t go now, 
because I'm afraid of the dark." 


196 


ELIZA 


“What on earth — ” began Eliza incredulously. 

“You’ll hate me for a shirk and a coward, I 
know,” he said mournfully, “but I could no more 
go at night than I could fly.” 

“Do you want me to go for you?” she asked. 

“Yes,” he answered, hiding his face. 

The situation was terrible. Eliza knew exactly 
where the cave was — a most dreadfully lonesome 
place, but the discovery that Harry — oh, Eliza 
couldn’t conceive anything as bad as this — a boy 
willing to let a girl do what he wouldn’t! With a 
mighty effort she tried to hide the contempt from 
showing in her voice. 

“Well — I will go for you, Harry. I — suppose 
it is a sort of bravery to acknowledge one’s cow- 
ardice.” 

“You will have to enter that dark cave after 
night,” warned Harry. “You must do it of your 
own free will, Eliza.” 

“I’m never afraid of anything out doors ” said 
Eliza. “But to go inside of dark places like a cave 
after night is not what — I ’specially like.” 

“I’d go with you only everybody would expect 
it had something to do with Father if I were found 
missing.” 

“No, you’d better stay,” said Eliza sweetly, know- 
ing that was not his only excuse. “Harry, if I 
shouldn’t come back by morning you’ll know where 
to look for me.” 


THE RESULTS OF ELIZA 


197 


“If you are not back by daylight, I’ll come look 
you up.” 

“Give the money to me and let me start.” 

“Good-by, Eliza — and thank you,” his voice 
broke. 

She nodded at him brightly and was soon speed- 
ing down the street. 

“She is some great girl,” said Harry to himself, 
when, just as he turned to go into the house, Eliza 
came running back. 

“Harry,” she called softly, “Harry, wait a min- 
ute. I’ve something important to tell you.” 

“So you’ve changed your mind — you are not go- 
ing?” said he as she drew near. 

“Of course I’m going. When you put your hand 
to the plow, Harry, never turn back. I only 
wanted to make my will.” 

“Your will, Eliza?” The solemnity of it struck 
him with full force. 

“Everybody ought to make one, Harry — if they 
don’t want other people to do it for them after they 
are dead.” 

“Dead !” Harry looked pale. 

“Yes, Harry,” Eliza’s tones were impressive. 
“What I am going to do is dangerous — you must 
see it is, Harry. But I — I am not afraid. I’ll be 
thinking all the time how I am doing it for some- 
body I don’t like — and that will be the glory for 


198 


ELIZA 


“Don’t you like Dad?” 

“He isn’t so very lovable, Harry.” 

“Why?” Harry stiffened perceptibly. 

“Because he’s like Aunt Jane, exactly. The love 
isn’t in them. The only difference is, Aunt Jane 
pretends to have it and he doesn’t. Love is a lovely 
thing, Harry. It is God. If you haven’t got it 
for everybody, you are on the losing side.” 

Harry stared at her with open mouth. 

“Harry, take me somewhere and give me a pen 
and paper. I must hurry, for Aunt Jane is liable 
to miss me at any minute. I pinned a note on my 
pillow telling her to call here and find out where I 
was. I hoped she wouldn’t wake until I got back.” 

Harry opened the front door very quietly and 
led her upstairs to a little room off from his own 
where he kept his books and writing material. 
Eliza sat down by a table and began at once to write. 
Her pen moved rapidly. She only paused once or 
twice and that was to think about the spelling — 
Eliza’s spelling was her weak point. When she fin- 
ished she looked up, saying, “I haven’t much to will, 
after all, Harry. You read it so you can sign as a 
witness.” 

This is what Harry read : 

“My last will and testament” (in case I die to- 
night) . “I am going to help out a neighbor who is 
in trouble. I have to go by myself and it is dark as 


THE RESULTS OF ELIZA 


199 


pich but I am going to do it. It is to take some 
money to Harry’s father. He’s hiding in a cave. 
I will all my things to Susan except my skates and 
my pearl ring which are my best possessions and I 
bequeath them to Aunt J ane because I ought to love 
her and I don’t. If Mother wants them, Aunt 
Jane will give them to her, I suppose. To Mother 
and Mr. Champe I leave my love which is the best 
thing after all. And to Mr. Champe I leave all the 
short stories I ever wrote — the others are burnt. 
These will be valurble some day. Amen — Eliza.” 

“Eliza,” said Harry solemnly, after laying the 
will back on the little table, “I can’t stand to let you 
go alone. I am going with you — to live or to 
perish.” 

“It is a noble decision,” said Eliza. “The money 
will make it dangerous, you know. Men have 
killed men to get a hundred dollars.” 

“Come on,” said Harry nervously. 

“I am going to say my prayers first. You can 
do it or not, as you choose,” said Eliza, kneeling as 
she spoke. Harry soon found himself kneeling 
also. It was an interesting scene. The light from 
the chandelier struck full on Eliza’s curls and white 
dress — the same she had put on that morning for 
church. She prayed aloud and Harry said the 
“Amen” with her when she had finished. “Dear 
God,” prayed Eliza. “Dear God, please listen and 


200 


ELIZA 


be with us every minute of to-night — especially to- 
night, dear God, for we are two little children go- 
ing out into an awful lonesome and dark place and 
we have to have You close to us more so than usual. 
Let us be glad we can do it and let us forget our- 
selves in doing it and then we won’t be afraid. It 
is right to help a man in trouble — and, dear God, 
if he brought the trouble on himself and is wicked — 
which I mustn’t judge of, dear God — but if he is, let 
what we are going through for him kind of soften 
him up. Please, dear God, don’t think I am trying 
to pick motes in his eyes. Forgive him if he has 
done anything wrong at the bank. I judge not. 
Ever your faithful little girl — Amen. Eliza,” 

As they rose, they were startled by a form stand- 
ing in the doorway. Harry rubbed his eyes to wipe 
away a mist that had gathered there during Eliza’s 
prayer and to make sure he was not dreaming what 
he now saw. Eliza said nothing. For once she 
was stricken dumb. The form in the doorway was 
no other than Mr. Welche! 

Mr. Welche stepped forward half way into the 
room. He also could scarcely believe his senses. 
He had just come in on a very late train and had en- 
tered his house to find this secret meeting. Even 
though he had surprised the children in prayer, he 
suspected them of being up to some very naughty 
prank and an unkindly light gleamed from his eyes. 



I I 


DEAR GOD — PLEASE LISTEN AND BE WITH US EVERY MINUTE 
OF TO-NIGHT — ESPECIALLY TO-NIGHT, DEAR GOD.” 




THE RESULTS OF ELIZA 


201 


It was difficult in Mr. Welche to detect good in any- 
one, but in the two flushed faces before him he could 
read only guilt and deception. He was given no 
time to speak, however, for a most dreadful commo- 
tion was heard out upon the stairs and Aunt Jane 
rushed into the room! Her hair was in two long 
plaits, and a wrapper — silk to be sure, but never- 
theless a wrapper — on over her night dress. She 
threw herself at Eliza in a sort of frenzy. “Oh, my 
precious — my darling child,” she cried, “what 
haven’t I suffered the last five minutes because of 
you!” 

Eliza disengaged herself from her aunt’s em- 
braces and stood apart. She looked patiently, even 
indulgently, at her aunt, at first not speaking. It 
seemed so useless to try to make either her aunt or 
Mr. Welche understand. At last she said slowly as 
if to herself, “I would do it all over again — just ex- 
actly like I did — I am very sure I would.” 

Aunt Jane, sinking into the nearest chair, opened 
her mouth and wept. Aunt Jane was not pretty 
when she spread her mouth. Mr. Welche looked 
up at her once from the table where he was busily 
engaged reading something he had discovered there, 
then, he continued his reading until he had finished 
every word of the little will Eliza had made. The 
Mr. Welche who remained afterward was not the 
same Mr. Welche. The scales had fallen from his 


202 


ELIZA 


eyes, so to speak, and he was open to conviction. 

“Harry, my boy, I want you to explain this/’ he 
said in a voice so different from his usual voice that 
it made Eliza stare. 

“We thought you were in a cave hiding, and I 
had my hundred dollars and got Eliza to say she 
would take it to you to-night.” 

“But, why didn’t you bring it to me?” 

“I was afraid,” admitted Harry, hanging his 
head. 

“But, a little girl, Harry — you wouldn’t let her 
go alone?” 

“Yes, sir — I — intended to, but when she made 
her will and prayed so solemn like — I found — I 
couldn’t let her go alone.” 

“She was willing, though — that is the great thing. 
Why were you willing, Eliza, to do this for me?” 

“I want to love my enemies,” said Eliza sweetly. 
“I haven’t but two — you and Aunt Jane — and I 
want to love you.” 

“We are not your enemies.” 

“You are not on my side, anyway,” she said, “and 
if you are not for me you are against me. I’m 
tired,” she added wistfully. “I want Mother.” 

“One moment, Eliza. Were you not afraid to 
go to a cave alone at night?” 

“I was all the time, and yet I — I couldn’t turn 
back.” 


THE RESULTS OF ELIZA 


203 


The best in us is often brought to light by un- 
selfishness in others. Eliza’s willing sacrifice for 
himself was not unappreciated. A very soft light 
kindled in Mr. Welche’s eyes as he watched Eliza. 
Aside from what she had done, she looked very beau- 
tiful as she stood there answering his questions. 

He took her hand and said : 

“Eliza, I am going to make you very happy by 
telling you two things. First, there will be plenty 
of money to meet the run on the bank expected to- 
morrow. It was for this that I left town. Next — 
and the best, Eliza” — his voice sounded sad — “is 
this : I don’t suppose it will be a secret long — your 
mother was compelled to tell me because — well, any- 
how, it’s this : she and that rascal Champe are to be 
married next month.” 

As the full significance of his words came to 
Eliza, her face radiated with joy. Tiptoeing, she 
drew Mr. Welche’s neck in the circle of her arms. 
Harry approached and took his father’s hand — 
shyly at first — but, when he found it grasped firmly, 
he felt glad. Just as the hall clock below struck the 
midnight hour, Mr. Welche leaned over and looked 
into Harry’s eyes. A great light seemed to flash 
from his own face into the upturned face of the boy. 

“Harry, my son,” he said. “Another day will 
soon dawn. Let it be for us both a day of better 
understanding.” 


THE END 





































































































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